


In Darkness More than Light

by lilybeth84



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clonty, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Monty Green is not a cinnamon roll, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilybeth84/pseuds/lilybeth84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the destruction of Mount Weather, with Clarke gone AWOL, his parents dead, and Jasper not speaking to him, Monty finds comfort in the dark forests beyond the walls of Camp Jaha. </p><p>One night, while in the grip of despair, he can't help wonder if life is worth living anymore. But his thoughts of death are interrupted when Clarke emerges from the woods, and he is forced to make decisions that will either save her-a woman he cares more deeply for than he ever realized-or lose her, and with her, a reason to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Darkness More than Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sahirawr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahirawr/gifts).



> This story is written for all those tiny ships in The 100 that have no voice. It is for the desexualized and emmasculated Asian male in pop culture, and for sahirawr, who is the only one who asked for Clarke x Monty fic.

Night had finally fallen, and the shadows of the trees surrounding Camp Jaha loomed over it and stood stark against the navy sky. Monty slipped silently out of camp and into the darkness of the surrounding forest. He stood at the edge of the trees and waited for his eyes to adjust to the blackness around him.

It didn’t take too long. Not anymore. He blinked a couple of times, and started forward, passing through the trees without a sound, his footsteps light on the forest floor.

At first he had been frightened of the dark. The dark held fears and dangers that he couldn’t see—animals and Grounders—but after Mount Weather he feared the light more—especially artificial light. It reminded him of the cages and the screams of pain and terror.

Mostly his own.

 

He had still been reeling from everything when he had found Bellamy and asked him to teach him all he had learned from his military training back on the Ark.

Bellamy frowned slightly, his eyes piercing as they searched Monty’s face, looking for something. “Are you okay?” he asked finally.

Monty didn’t want questions or explanations, he wanted knowledge, and Bellamy was the only person he trusted who had those skills. The rest of the guards reminded him too much of the guards inside Mount Weather, and he didn’t know them.

“Are you?”

Bellamy’s face tightened and Monty felt immediately guilty. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to Bellamy in the mountain, but he knew something had. It was obvious by the haggard lines on his face, the haunted look in his eyes, and the way his teeth were perpetually clenched together.

Monty knew this because he looked the same way every time he stared at himself in the cracked mirror in his tent.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just—there were times that if I had only—” he broke off and looked at the ground.

They stood there together, but alone, each lost in his own memories, battling his own demons.

“I don’t want to ever feel helpless again,” Monty admitted finally, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I need to be able to protect myself… and possibly others.”

Bellamy’s scrutiny faded, and he nodded wearily in understanding. “Okay, Monty. I’ll teach you.”

 

They had started out with hand to hand combat and then guns. Monty didn’t much like the assault weapons, for they felt bulky and were not much use in close proximity, but he reveled in the rush that hand to hand combat gave him. And he was good. After a few weeks, he had noticed that people had begun to watch them—including Octavia, her sword at her side.

After watching for a few days, she had come forward and handed him a sword, teaching him techniques she had learned from Indra. It was hard, and often Monty had gone to his tent at the end of the day, unable to rest because of the bruises and the pain in his muscles. But over a few months, the pain had turned into nothing more than an ache, then a stretch, and the bruises always healed.

His hands had calloused over, and he had developed an agility and quickness that allowed him to move through the camp like a ghost. He often felt like a ghost, alone and parentless, wandering through the woods by himself.

 

An owl hooted softly from above, and a thrill of fear rushed through him before his brain processed what it was, and that it would not harm him.

He never had a destination in these nightly outings. He’d started because it was better than laying in his dark tent, sleepless and listening to his heart pounding in his aching chest, the acrid taste of fear left from the nightmares in his mouth. Sleep usually came easily—almost too easily—depression seemed to do that. But it always abandoned him in the early morning hours long before the first light of dawn had even begun to think of slipping its fingers over the horizon.

There had been a few close calls with the guards, but they were creatures of habit, and he’d soon learned the best places to slip by unseen and unheard. He’d gotten so good at being invisible, it wasn’t uncommon for him to come up behind someone and unintentionally frighten them. They always claimed they never heard him coming and he realized he preferred it that way.

He didn’t talk much since he’d come back, not while eating his meals with Harper and Miller, not working with Raven, and never with Jasper.

They hadn’t spoken since the day Maya died. Not even about their parents.

The ache he had felt deep within his chest since leaving the mountain only grew when he thought of Jasper. He had been sorry for Maya, but more so for the pain Jasper had felt. Maya had been an unfortunate casualty. She wouldn’t have survived outside the wall, and he knew full well that Cage would never have let them live, not when they had what he needed so badly. Monty hadn’t really known Maya long enough to feel anything more than a vague sadness, and he still hadn’t trusted her, no matter what Jasper or she claimed.

He knew it was hard for Jasper, and he felt for his friend, but there was part of Monty that was still angry with him for the way he had so easily dropped Monty once he’d suddenly become so popular with the others. There was no excuse for calling Harper “low hanging fruit,” and then getting defensive when Monty called him out on it, claiming he was jealous.

Maybe he was jealous. They’d always been low hanging fruits on the Ark, but they’d been it together. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Jasper to have other friends—he did—but he couldn’t understand why it was necessary to treat those who’d liked him before his sudden fame like dirt under his feet in the process of making them.

 

The path he took sloped down as he drew closer to the small river that ran slowly by, just south of the camp. 

He’d found it the day he’d found out his parents were dead.

Abby Griffin had pulled him aside, her face etched with regret, and told him. He had simply nodded and not hearing another word, he had fled the camp, running until he was gasping for breath, his side cramping in painful stitches.

He had numbly followed a barely noticeable path that could either have been made months ago, or years before the war. That was where he found the river. It was, maybe, hip deep if he were to wade through it, and about as wide as a couple of the larger tents placed side by side, with slow moving water.

It was out on a large flat rock in the middle of the water that he had wailed, letting his grief pour out of him until he sank to his knees, sobbing by the river bank until he was exhausted and his voice was gone

He had collapsed there and slept for hours, waking up as the sun fell over the western edge of the mountains, his throat painfully raw. He’d returned to camp, not paying the slightest attention to the falling darkness or the fact that he was alone.

Somehow it hadn’t mattered so much anymore.

He had returned to the river, again and again. He found the icy water on his bare feet, and the gentle trickling sound it made, soothing. And from the rock, which was accessible by some stepping stones, he could sit under the bare sky and look at the stars, or when the moon was bright enough, he could watch the silvery colored fish swim in the water around him. It gave him comfort to know that they had survived the war and were still thriving here. 

 

He shivered as he crouched down on the rock in his usual position. It was late summer, or early autumn from what he could tell by the leaves and the plants around him, and though the air was still warm, there was a chill to the edge of it that hinted at the coming winter.

He said the word silently. _Winter._ It should have brought him a sense of urgency, but he only felt the deep ache of sorrow and despair. The approach of winter just didn’t seem very important anymore.

Resting his chin on his knees he stared down into the water. The moonlight made it translucent and he could see the algae-coated rocks it ran over. He slowly dipped his hand in and touched the slimy surface of the rock nearest to him.

The algae fed the plankton, which then fed the fish, who in turn fed larger fish, and other large mammals. The eco-system had survived even after humans had done their best to completely eradicate it from the planet they had once called home.  

He pulled out his numbing hand and wrapped his sweater closer around his body, still staring at the water.

Perhaps it was better without them, the earth. Perhaps they should have stayed in the Ark and perished—or died like his parents had.

_Maybe this world is not meant for us this time...for me._

Sometimes he could handle the despair better than other times, but tonight it came upon him exceedingly hard and the thoughts he normally pushed away crept into his mind through the cracks of his memory. Aching depression flared up and overtook his muscles, skin, and joints, until he was a tender ball of throbbing pain.

It was usually just a fearful feeling in the pit of his stomach that never seemed to go away, just rising and ebbing, an ocean tide within him that had no diurnal rhythm.

But not tonight. Tonight it was like an infection, hot and wretched.

He watched the fish and wondered what it would be like to follow them, to lay down in the river and let it take him into its depths, maybe out to the salt water ocean where he’d become part of the endless cycle of life and death.

Tears pricked hot, blurring the fish into a silvery black mass that had no definition.

Then he heard it. A rustling noise on the opposite bank. His thoughts of death were instantly quenched as the instinct to survive took over him. Aware of how exposed he was out here in the middle of the river, he immediately got to his feet. He was going to run for the trees when he caught sight of a familiar blonde head of hair emerge from the tree line on the opposite bank.

His heart dropped with a thud.

It was Clarke.

He hadn’t seen her since the day she’d freed them from Mount Weather. She’d hugged him and disappeared. He had known she wasn’t going to stay—deep inside he had known—but that knowledge hadn’t made him feel any better about it. There was something about her decision that had rubbed him wrong, not to mention the gaping hole in their group she left behind.

Silently, he watched her walk to the water’s edge where she removed her boots and her socks. He watched her wade into the water, but when she lifted her shirt up over her head, he realized too late what was happening. He spun around, his heart in his mouth.

Panicking, he couldn’t decide what he should do. Tell her he was there and risk her killing him before she recognized him, or staying still and silent, and hope she didn’t see him.

His conscious only allowed one decision, but as he opened his mouth to say her name, he heard a strangled cry from behind him. He whirled around just in time to see her slip and go down into the water with a splash. Her voice was cut short and she lay still as horror over took him. But the current would not wait for him, and it caught her up in its grip and took her downstream.  

“Clarke!”

He jumped down into the water, gasping as the icy mountain runoff poured into his boots, and up his pants. He pushed through the water to her as quickly as he could without falling. He slipped a couple times but always managed to stay upright. He caught her just before she would have slipped out of his reach.

He lifted her head up out of the water first, and then tried to lift her body, but her soaked clothes made her heavier and much harder to move, and he was too cold, and too wet himself to do anything other than grip her under the arms and drag her through the water to the muddy bank opposite where he’d come from. He gently placed her head down and knelt beside her. 

“No! Clarke!” He lightly slapped her face, but she didn’t respond. Her lips were a pale bluish color and her face was completely white.

He leaned forward, placing his ear to her mouth. He felt it on his cheek, a faint whisper of breath that told him she wasn’t dead…not yet.

Tipping her head back, he placed his mouth over hers and blew air into her lungs, beginning the process of resuscitation. She wasn’t taking in enough breaths, and he was afraid if he didn’t, she would cease breathing altogether.

Then there was the head injury. If it didn’t kill her, hypothermia certainly would. He had to work fast.

Crossing his hands over each other, her placed them between her breasts and pumped her chest. He had never done this on a real person before, and it terrified him. What if he broke her sternum and it punctured her lung? He had no way to call for help. He was all alone.

After a few more sessions, her breaths grew deeper and more frequent. The blueness of her lips eased, but the cold clamminess of her skin did not. Her body temperature had dropped too low.

The problem was where to take her. Camp Jaha was at least a fifteen to twenty minute walk, and he wasn’t sure how fast he could get there carrying her weight. It could take twice that time, and then it might be too late.

He patted her face again. “Clarke? I need you to wake up. Clarke, talk to me.”

She moaned, her eyes fluttering. “My head…” Her voice was sluggish and her syllables slurred.

He gently lifted her head and brushed away her hair. The wound was long and was bleeding rather profusely. He had to get her somewhere out of the cold mud.

“Clarke, I need you to tell me where your camp is.”

She blinked but it wasn’t at him. Her eyes shone, reflecting the moon. “The star-trees…” she muttered. “The angel…”

She was hallucinating. “Damn,” he muttered. He would have to take her back to Camp Jaha. He had no other choice.

“In the trees of stars…”

“Come on.” He crouched down and taking one of her arms, dragged her onto his shoulders, so he could lift her with the strongest part of his body. He stood with a grunt and began to wade through the icy water when he heard her mumble in his ear,

“…the c-circle of trees….beyond the weeping angel, where the stars shine…”

Suddenly he understood. She wasn’t hallucinating; she was describing where she had set up camp. A circle of trees beyond…what the hell was the weeping angel?

“Okay, Clarke, I’ll find it. You have to stay awake though. If you fall asleep, you might die. Do you understand me?”

“Okay, Finn.”

He hesitated briefly when she called him by Finn’s name, but then hurried off as fast as he could with her, through the trees, finding the small path she had made.

He carried her only for a few minutes, but it felt like hours, until he reached a stretch of very old stones, badly worn and varying in size and shape, guarded by a statue of an angel, its head in its hands.

The weeping angel.

And just beyond it was a small circle of tightly packed trees.

In the circle, he found the small remains of a campfire. One of the trees had a hollow opening in the bottom where he saw Clarke’s sleeping bag and her pack.

He turned his face towards hers. “Clarke. I’ve brought you home.”

There was no answer. He lowered himself onto one knee and set her down. Her head fell back onto his arm, and when he picked it up, he was shocked to see the considerable amount of blood that had leaked down his shoulder and arm.

He immediately retrieved her sleeping bag, which he unrolled and spread out next to the fire pit, talking to her the entire time, hoping his voice might keep her tethered here in the conscious world.

“Can you hear me Clarke? If you can, just listen…stay with me.”

With shaking fingers, he tore off a piece of his undershirt, and lifting her head, wound it around the wound to staunch the bleeding. They were both covered in blood and dirt, but he didn’t have the time to care.

“Is this where you’ve been for the last few months? Everyone is worried about you. Your mother, Bellamy especially, and—and me. Actually, my parents are dead. I miss them and I wish there were with me now. It’s really hard…and Jasper doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

He pulled her thermal shirt up over her head, careful not to smother her face. As he was tugging her hands out of the sleeves, he noticed the ragged scar on her wrist. He remembered it had been bandaged when she had joined them in the days after arriving in Mount Weather, but this was worse. It looked as though she’d cut it again, deeper this time.

 “What is this? Is this how you got out?”

He held up her wrist and looked down at her closed eyes.

“You know, I worried about you for days after you left, before I knew you’d escaped. I thought you might have been killed or stuck somewhere I couldn’t get to.”

He wasn’t quite sure why he was telling her this, never having put it into words before, but once he mentioned her leaving, he couldn’t seem to stop.

“I understand why you didn’t trust Jasper, but I thought you would at least tell me what you were going to do...I thought you knew I trusted you, Clarke, and it felt awful….that you didn’t trust me back.”

He paused, his hands on the buttons of her pants.

“Well, you’re going to have to trust me now.”

He finished undressing her, telling her everything he was doing step by step, so that if she woke up in the middle of it, she wouldn’t be afraid. He didn’t want her to be afraid.

“You have hypothermia, and your clothes are wet. I have to take them off so you can warm up, okay Clarke?”

She lay still in the dirt, clad only in the standard Ark-issued underwear. He’d left her jacket and shoes at the river, but they could retrieve them later. He hoped there was a later.

He covered her with a tattered green wool blanket, tucking it around her so the cold air couldn’t penetrate, then unzipped the sleeping bag, and taking every soft dry item he could find, he stuffed them into the sides. He pushed dirt and leaves against the sides to further insulate it. Then he made a small fire in the ashes, making the embers hot, and lay out her clothes on the felled tree next to it. Then, heart pounding, he stripped off his own clothing, save his underwear, and placed them next to hers. The air was cold, and goosebumps scattered across his skin.

He went to Clarke and gathered her into his arms. Lifting her up against his chest with a grunt, he carried her to the sleeping bag and set her down inside. Slipping in beside her, he zipped it up around them, pulling the blanket up around the top of their heads so it made a cocoon. After only a moment’s hesitation, he gently placed his hands at her waist and pulled her against him, lining up their legs and torsos.

“Clarke?” She was so cold and still. “Clarke, please,” he said desperately, feeling fear well up, choking his throat. “Please wake up. You can’t die here. You can’t. If you die, how will we survive?”

Her freckles stood out against her pale skin, the blue veins under her eyelids prominent.

“How will I?” he whispered, stroking her cheek with the tip of his finger. “I miss you.”

He placed his hand on the top of her head, still damp from the water, hoping it might prevent heat loss, and entwined their legs together so that her icy feet might find the warm skin of his own.

“The stars…”

Startled, he looked down and found her staring at the sky, her eyes wide and so very blue.

A chill of fear ran down his spine. They were too clear… too terrifyingly beautiful.

“Look.”                                 

He followed her gaze, looking up…

…and then saw why she had called them the star-trees.

The branches of the trees high above framed the night sky in the shape of a star, showcasing the stars and planets in their milky whirls and patterns, and the shapes that made their ancestors name them after archers and bears and gods.

He looked back down to find her gazing up at him with recognition.

“Monty?”

“Hey,” he murmured, smoothing his thumb across her eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Her face crumpled, and she began to cry—weak, desperate, sounds.

“Am I dying?”

Monty felt his mouth dry up and cold dread flow through him.

He had learned that hypothermia patients felt no fear or pain in the end; that they merely went to sleep. But he was starting to think the textbooks had lied—that they knew until the very end, death was coming.

“You’re not going to die Clarke. I promise, okay?”

He couldn’t help the tremble in his voice, but he didn’t even know if she noticed. She nodded once and closed her eyes. He pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin.

“Just listen to my voice,” he whispered into her hair. “And stay here with me.”

So he told her stories; the ones he remembered from when he was a child. He told her about the tiger, and the brother and sister who fled him, climbing a rope to the heavens where they became the sun and moon. He told her about the tiger and the bear who wanted to be human more than anything, and how the bear turned into a woman and gave birth to the first man. Then he told her about a little boy who grew up in the Ark amongst the stars, but knew more about the earth below, his head always full of dirt and flowers.

He told her about circuits and processors and solid state physics, until his voice went raw and he fell asleep, counting the times he felt her chest rise against his, instead of sheep.

He was dreaming that he was in the sky climbing a rope, with Clarke behind him. They climbed and climbed and climbed, and then suddenly there was no rope and they began to fall, plummeting toward the ground, reaching out towards each other—

He opened his eyes before he hit the ground, only to remember he was already there. There was a soft breeze in the trees above, and the sun was filtering its warm light through the leaves.

He became aware of the gentle whisper of her breath against his bare chest, the feel of her in his arms, alive and warm, and for a moment he lay there imagining it wasn’t because of hypothermia that he was here next to her, that they weren’t filthy with blood and grime, and—

“Oh…” He breathed out slowly and quietly. He couldn’t move. His arms were wrapped around her, and her body was pressed into his. It was all he could do to focus his attention away from how good her skin felt, and focus on waking her up.

“Clarke,” he said softly. She didn’t move. “Clarke.” he said a little louder, and her eyes fluttered open and met his. Then she blinked.

“Monty?” She looked confused for a moment, but not scared. “What happened?”

“You fell into the river and hit your head.”

“I remember going to wash…” Her eyebrows drew together. “You were there?”

Monty felt his face turn red, and hoped she couldn’t see it. “I…was going to let you know I was there, but you fell before I could. I’m sorry.”

She scanned his face, perhaps looking to see if he was lying, but she just nodded and then winced. “Ugh.”

He grimaced in sympathy. “How’re you feeling?”

She shifted her body, and Monty pulled away from her, not trusting his own body not to respond to the way she moved against him.

“My head hurts, and my muscles ache.”

“But no numb toes or fingers?” He unzipped the sleeping bag and the warm air blew across his skin as he sat up. He picked up her hands and examined each finger, one by one.

“They’re fine.”

He ignored her and glanced at the blood matted bandage wrapped around her head. “I think you need to get checked out. You bled a lot.”

“Is all that mine?” There was alarm in her tone, and he looked down at his blood spattered arms.

“Yeah.” He gulped remembering his fear. “It was scary.”

She sat up, her legs sliding against his as she moved, their hair creating sensitive friction that made his skin break out in goose bumps. He noticed hers did as well, but he was sure it was because of the air, not because she felt anything.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“What about that?”

She froze when he pointed at her wrist. “It looks like it was cut twice.”

She didn’t look at him. “I cut it when I broke the glass in the window on the door and demanded Maya take me to you... Do you remember?”

He felt startled. He hadn’t realized that had been the reason she broke out of quarantine. 

“And..." 

"And then again to get out." 

But she wouldn't look at him.

“I’ll take care of my head. I know what to do, okay?”

“At least let me help you. It’s on the back of your head where it’ll be hard for you to reach.”

“Monty—”

“Clarke, for once let someone help you!”

She stared at him, and he flushed. He didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh.

“Okay.” She was looking at him curiously. Not mad, just…curious.

Monty nodded. He got up and quickly pulled on his pants, not caring if they were still damp. He wasn’t going to walk around in his underwear, not with the memory of how she felt against him imprinted on his skin, and on his mind.

They were, luckily for him, dry, as was his shirt, both warm from the fire and smelling faintly of wood smoke.

He tossed Clarke her shirt and jeans, and then picked up the sweater he’d been given in Mount Weather. It was dry, but he dropped it back onto the log. He looked up and found Clarke standing in front of him in her underwear, bent over at the waist, pulling her pants on. The tops of her breasts moved as she pulled them on, and he quickly looked away, feeling his face heat up and his heart pound.  

He sat down on the log and pulled on his socks, and his boots, which were still a bit damp, trying to unsee what he’d just seen.

“Monty?”

He turned to find her dressed, but staring at her feet.

“Do you know where my boots and coat are?”

He’d forgotten about them. “At the river—I didn’t think there was time, and I couldn’t carry them and you.” He picked up the sweater and tossed it to her. “Put that on for now.”

She frowned at him. “What are you going to wear, then?”

“I’m not the one that almost died of hypothermia.”

She took it, albeit reluctantly, and put it on. “I’ll walk with you to the river to get my shoes and coat, and then I’ll give it back.”

He eyed her bare toes. “With no shoes?” They were quite pretty, despite the dirt….her toes.

She scowled. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“I’ll carry you.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. He cursed himself internally for being distracted by her feet.

Of all the things to be distracted by.

“What?” Her eyebrows rose and she tilted her head, like it was some sort of abnormal thing to offer.

He shrugged, trying to make it seem like it was no big deal to him. “I’ll carry you. I did last night, I can do it again.”

She scanned his face, as though she still thought it was a joke. “Okay,” she agreed reluctantly, but obviously still wary of letting him do anything for her. “But if I get too heavy, just put me down.”

“Deal.”

He wouldn’t put her down, but he knew her well enough that she wouldn’t let him carry her unless he agreed. She was so damn stubborn.  

 

So he carried her through the woods, hyper-aware of her breasts against his back and her thighs around his waist. He felt the firm muscles of her thighs as his fingers pressed into them, and the strange heat in the middle of his back from the core of her body.

It was a piggyback ride—a childish way to carry someone, with a childish name—and yet it didn’t feel that way. The way it felt made his heart pound loudly and his cheeks hot. He was intensely glad she couldn’t see his face.

When they reached the river, he spotted her boots and jacket right where she’d left them, safe and dry on a fallen tree. He watched as she put them on, noticing the way her fingers moved deftly as she tied her laces.

“Thank you,” she said, getting to her feet. She started to take off the sweater he’d given her, but he shook his head.

“I don’t want it.”

“Why?”

He looked away. He didn’t want to say why. It was just a damn sweater.

“I—just don’t want it. I’ll just get something from Jasper when I get back.”

Mistake. He felt his stomach turn to lead, and she dropped her gaze.

“How is Jasper?” Her voice was low…sad.

Monty crouched down and was quiet. He picked up a stick and began to draw patterns into the dirt. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since the day we got back.” He felt Clarke’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up.

“Why?” There was confusion in her tone, which in turn confused Monty.

“What do you mean why? Because of Maya?”

Clarke’s head jerked a little at Maya’s name. “Why is he angry with you? You didn’t do anything.”

He looked up to see if she was joking, and if she was to tell her it wasn’t funny, but she was looking so grave, and he realized she actually thought he was innocent.

She was staring out over the river. “What were you doing out here, anyways? It’s kind of far from Camp Jaha,” she asked before he could respond to her bizarre observation that he had done nothing.

“Stargazing,” he said, not looking at her. “Now let me see your head.”

 

She sat dutifully down again on the fallen tree trunk and let him peel away the matted, bloody hair at the back of her head. Tearing off another strip of his undershirt, which he’d not put on, instead intending it for bandaging, he went over to the river to soak it.

“You should have used mine,” Clarke protested.

“What, and let you walk around shirtless?” he said shortly, as he began to wash the blood away from her head.

“But—ouch!”

She winced as he touched her injured scalp with the damp cloth. As the dried blood came off, he could see the large gash was still oozing fresh blood. He gently dabbed at the wound.

“I really think you should see your mother. You need stitches.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Clarke….” He infused a warning tone into his voice, hoping she might get the message.

Otherwise, he would have to knock her out again and take her there himself.

Clarke was silent as he wrapped strips of his shirt around her head, bandaging it the best he could. When he finished she sighed.

“Okay.” She looked seriously up at him. “But I’ll go later, after its dark. I don’t want to see anyone. And you can’t tell anyone where I am, okay? Promise me!”

Monty searched her face, wondering why she was so intent on staying out here in the woods alone. He didn’t find an answer there.

“I promise, Clarke. As long as you promise to get your head checked. Okay?”

“I promise. Pinky swear.”

He linked his pinky with hers and they touched the pads of their thumbs together. It seemed silly, but pinky swearing was just as serious for kids aboard the Ark as legally binding contracts had been for adults. And it still meant something, even here on Earth—even though they weren’t quite kids anymore.

“I’m going, but I want you to seriously think about what you’re doing by staying out here alone. Next time I might not be here.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and jumped onto the first stepping stone. The sound the water made was just loud enough he didn’t hear her murmur, “Thank you, Monty,” as she watched him leave.

 

The wolf came to him in his dream that night, appearing out of the woods in the corner of his mind. Its yellow eyes glowed like moons as it watched him. He thought he should probably be afraid, but he wasn’t. And when he decided that, it padded over to him and sniffed his hand.

He gently placed his hand on the back of the wolf and was amazed at how real it felt, the coarseness of the top layer of fur, and the softness of the undercoat as his fingers sank in.

The wolf nudged his arm with its nose and Monty looked up to see it staring off behind him. Monty turned around, but before he could see what the wolf was looking at, he woke up.

He put on his coat, and went out into the forest, breathing in the cold air. He had recognized the woods from his dream and he wanted to find them. He searched for a marker, something that could tell him where he’d seen them before, but he was disappointed. He went back to camp as the sun was rising and went back to sleep. He didn’t wake up until lunch time.

 

“Where have you been the last few days?”

Monty looked up at Harper from his plate of dehydrated rice and beans and shrugged. “Sleeping?” He looked away, but just out of his direct line of vision, he saw her and Miller exchange doubtful glances. He didn’t try to come up with a plausible lie anymore.

“Okay, man. You don’t have to tell us,” Miller said, shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth, bits sticking to his lips. Harper looked away, disgusted.

Monty didn’t say anything. He just played with his food, the hunger he had felt when he woke up, groggy and depressed, had suddenly gone at the sight of Ark food. If there was one good thing about Mount Weather, it had been the food.

But he didn’t want to think about Mount Weather. He put his plate down, and stood up. “I’m going to check up on the work I missed. See you guys later.”

He didn’t wait for their goodbyes.

He wandered through the camp, listening to the laughter that rose up from the hearth fires where people ate together. At first, the sound of laughter had been few and far between, but it was getting more frequent. People were relaxing, getting used to life on the ground. It seemed as though everyone was settling in except for him.

And Bellamy, probably.

He found Raven tinkering with one of the radios that had come down with the Ark, tools scattered around her.

“Where’ve you been?” She asked not looking up from her work. “You weren’t in your tent this morning.”

He looked at her sharply. “How do you know that?”

She looked at him sideways. “I stopped by…but you were gone. Where did you go?”

He picked up one of the hard drives he had been working on and tuned it over in his hands, not looking at her. He wasn’t sure how much to tell her.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” She scowled and turned her back to him, shoulders hunched. He could tell she was hurt.

“I was outside the walls…in the forest.”

She was silent, pondering his confession, then she turned and asked, “Why?”

“Because it makes me feel something.”

She nodded. He knew she understood because she also knew what it was like to be completely helpless.

“Be careful,” was all she said before turning back to her work.

“I will.”

 

As the warm autumn breezes blew in, tinged with cold, Monty began to spend more time in the woods, hunting, and foraging for plants that he could cultivate for planting. They knew winter was not nearly as far away as it seemed, and the camp was preparing for it, though none of them had ever seen a winter except from the windows of the Ark, and from there it was only a white mass of clouds. They didn’t know the cold. None of them did.

But still, in spite of it's warning, Monty found autumn beautiful. The leaves turned from green to a glorious array of golden yellows, fiery oranges, and brilliant reds. The air grew sharper and there were foggy mornings where he could sneak out of the camp easily.

It was one of those mornings, and he was in the woods stalking a hare, its large ears alert. It sat on its haunches, sniffing the air, and Monty was sure it had smelled him when there was a rustling behind him. He turned immediately, arrow cocked in the trigger, to find himself staring at another arrow, this one pointed directly at him.

It was Clarke. Her eyes widened when she recognized him, and they lowered their bows.

“Monty?”

He looked back to where his prey had been. The hare was no longer there.

He turned to her as she drew closer. She was still wearing her leather jacket, but it looked a bit more worn, and her gloves were more tattered than they’d been before.

“What are you doing out here?”

“What does it look like?” He felt baffled, thinking it was obvious. “I’m hunting.”

“You’re hunting? Alone?”

Her disbelief grated his nerves and he felt defensive. “Why are you so surprised?”

She frowned. “You look like a Grounder. Usually only Grounders uses bows.”

“You use a bow,” he pointed out, feeling the irritation fester into anger. “No one asks you how you know how to use it.”

Her frown grew deeper. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you use a weapon before. I didn’t know you knew how.”

That was the last straw.

“No, because you didn’t allow me to, if you remember,” he snapped, the anger in him bursting forth. “You said something about all the knowledge that would save us was in my head so I couldn’t. Well it didn’t matter in the end because I almost died anyways. Knowing how to grow wheat didn’t save me from the Mountain!”

His voice trembled as he recalled how weak he’d been when Jasper had finally found him, how humiliated and helpless he’d felt, and it angered him beyond anything that perhaps he might have been able to do something if only he’d known how to defend himself.

She recoiled, looking as though he’d just slapped her. “What's your problem?”

“My problem is that I’m tired of always being treated like some precious object that needs to be coddled and protected.” His voice rang in the air around them. “I’m a man, Clarke, but you treat me like a child.”

“I do not!” she protested. “I never—”

Whatever anger and frustration that had been building inside him snapped, and he lashed out.

“Not you, or Bellamy, or anyone asked me what I wanted to do. I wasn’t given a choice. No one ever said, ‘Hey Monty, let me teach you how to shoot this gun, so you can protect yourself. Hey Monty, I’m going to go talk to the Grounders, do you have any input, since you’re so smart? Hey Monty, I’m going to break out of Mount Weather by cutting open my wrist _again_ and I really want you to know, because I trust you and I don’t want you to worry!”

“Is that what this is about?” she scoffed angrily, kicking at the ground. “Because I didn’t tell you I was breaking out of Mount Weather? God, Monty, it was a last minute decision! I acted when I had to. If I had waited, would we even be standing here?” Her lower lip trembled. “Is that what you want? Permission to make the decisions that either save or take lives? You’re not the one with blood on your hands!”

Her voice was filled with pain and self-pity, but he didn’t care. She didn’t get to be the martyr for everything that happened.

“You know Clarke, that’s _your_ biggest problem! You think you’re to blame for everything, but you’re not. Bellamy stood right next to you and you both pulled that lever. You wouldn’t have even been able to, if I’d not hacked into the system, and that makes me just a guilty as you, maybe more.” He laughed humorlessly “Jasper sure sees it that way. He hasn’t talked to me since! But I don’t regret it. That’s the difference between us. There were people in there that deserved the death they got.”

The sorrow, anger, and pain flowed out of him in a flood of words that poured from him like water from an overflowing cup, no longer able to hold himself upright to keep them all in.

“While you were out here, I was kept in a cage, like an animal, and I can still taste the fear in the back of my throat, like blood. Every day they stuck a needle in my back. They didn’t care that I would die; they only cared about getting my bone marrow so they could go outside. You don’t know what it’s like, Clarke, to be that helpless. So I am not going to waste my energy feeling guilty for the deaths of people who didn’t waste a thought on me. As for everyone else—”

He thumped his fist against his chest where the aching throb of dread had taken up residence, since he left Mount Weather.

“I hold that guilt too, right here. You think you can take it all away and hold it for me? For Bellamy?”

He pointed off in the direction of Camp Jaha.

“He doesn’t sleep either. Everyday he’s up on that damn wall, back and forth, back and forth, his gun in his hand, waiting for something that will probably never come because it isn’t something he can shoot to make it go away. It doesn’t work that way.”

Clarke hadn’t moved, staying rooted to that one spot as she watched him, her face pale. The anger and defensiveness in her had melted away and she looked defeated. He didn’t want that though, he wanted her to be angry. It was easier to keep yelling at her.

“You’re supposed to be our leader, Clarke, but you left us. You _left_ us. Your mother is still here, waiting, but mine isn’t. She’s dead and so is my dad. So you can continue to run away and stay out here alone, or you can come back and be with your people—the people who trust you. Either way, it’s your choice. And that choice is the only thing we have—to survive together, or die alone.”

His words rang in his ears in the deathly silence between them. Part of him wanted to take her in his arms, and tell her was sorry, but the other part was still angry with her. Angry and hurt.

“You’re parents are dead?” Her voice was so very quiet.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at her.

“I’m—”

But he didn’t want to hear her say she was sorry. Sorry wouldn’t change it. It wouldn’t bring either of them back.

“I have one thing to ask you before I go,” he interrupted, cutting her off. “Just one.”

She didn’t say anything, so he continued.

“Why did you leave Mount Weather without the rest of us?”

She shook her head in confusion, like she didn’t quite understand what he was asking.

“Why didn’t you at least say anything? I knew you didn’t trust Jasper, but I thought you’d at least trust me enough to tell me your plan.”

“I—I don’t know, Monty. I just knew I had to get so I could come back to—” she faltered, “—to save all of you. I took my chance when I had it…I didn’t think you needed to know.”

There it was. She thought he’d not needed to know. But he knew, if it had been Bellamy or anyone else, she would have said something.

“I thought you might have been injured. I worried for so long that you were alone and hurt somewhere, and I couldn’t do anything to help. And then I saw your wrist that night...the second scar.”

She was unable to hold his gaze and she dropped her eyes to the ground. “I’m sorry, Monty,” she whispered.

He could tell she meant it, but it was too late. She did not see him the way she saw Bellamy or the others. He was not her equal in that sense and it was a painful realization.

“It’s okay, Clarke,” he said woodenly. “I understand. I do.”

Suddenly whatever energy he’d had drained out of him and he felt exhausted. All he wanted at that moment was to sleep, without the nightmares or fears that chased him into the shadow place of his mind.

“I’m going. I hope I’ll see you around.”

He turned to leave, but she called out to him.

“Wait, Monty.”

He turned reluctantly, and she was coming towards him taking off her jacket. She removed the hoodie from underneath it and handed it to him.

“I owe you a sweater.” She met his eyes without blinking, steady and straight, despite the fact he had just unleashed all his anger on her. He took it without a word.

Tentatively, she reached up and put her fingers on his cheek. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Then she turned and was gone.

 

Back in his sun-warmed tent, he took off his jacket and put on the hoodie. She had made thumb holes in the sleeves, but his arms were too long, so the holes rested on his wrists. It didn’t bother him, though.

He lay down on his bedding and stared at the shimmering shadows through the tent’s roof, tuning out the noise of the camp. 

He closed his eyes and saw her as she had been that night at the river, her eyes staring up at the stars, the most beautiful he’d ever seen her. But it had been a terrible beauty…one that only existed in the boundary between life and death. He hoped he would never see it again.

He remembered how he’d felt in the minutes after he’d woken to the sun and the feel of her skin against his own, the intimacy that had felt so real for a fleeting time; a precious moment he could store away and take out in the darkness when all hope seemed lost.

He thought of the despair that threatened to take him and though it was still there, there was something else there too, something buffering the sharp edges so it hurt slightly less.

He turned over and fell asleep, surrounded by the scent of wood smoke and something he couldn’t place, her fingerprints still on his cheek.

 

He was dreaming again. He was out in the forest near Clarke’s camp, standing among the stones, but they were different now. They were new, and creamy white, and carved on each one was a name. All around him were the sounds of the past—laughter and the clinking of glass, a snippet of some long forgotten song, and the screams of dying men punctured by loud booming sounds that he did not recognize. He smelled the bitter scent of sulfur, and potassium nitrate, and it stung his nose and eyes. The air was thick with fear, and then as suddenly as it was there it was gone, and he smelled only wood smoke, laced with something only recently familiar…a scent that made his heart skip…

Then the wolf appeared. 

It stared at him with its yellow eyes, its fur stark against the backdrop of the dark forest. It watched him silently, then turned around and ran off into the forest, stopping only once to look back over its shoulder...to make sure Monty knew it wanted him to follow.

So he followed, and when it finally stopped, he knew where he was. He was frightened, but the familiar scent grew stronger and he knew he was supposed to be here. Off in the distance there was a cry of deep sorrow, and the wolf raised his head and joined, its howl making the hair on Monty’s arms stand up.

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding against his ribs as the sound faded with the reality of the dream. Only here, staring at the dark ceiling of his tent, did he know what the scent was and whom it belonged to, because he smelled it on the hoodie she’d given him.

It belonged to Clarke.

 

His lungs expanded deeply as he ran, the taste of blood in his throat, a cramp deep in his side, and the puncture scars on his back aching. He knew he would not be able to run much further, but he had to find her first. He headed in the direction of her camp, and then as he had done in his dream, he turned and went into the unfamiliar part of the forest, the one he had never explored. He didn’t want to go any further, not because of what he didn’t know, but because of what he did.

When he reached the Dropship, he stopped. A chill of fear ran down his spine as he stared up at its hulking mass of dark metal. He remembered the first days if his time on earth had been spent inside them, but it brought him no comfort now. 

He didn’t like it here—there were too many ghosts. He could feel them all around him, waiting for something…

Keeping his distance, he walked around it, careful not to trip over debris and went into the trees on the other side. As he went further in, he began to hear a sound, a thunking sound that got louder and louder. He passed around a large tree and stopped. It should have been right there, but he saw nothing. It was loud, but there was still a muffled quality to it, and that it was coming from below his feet.

He found the bunker’s entrance behind a wall of overgrown bushes and ivy, the heavy door ajar. He slipped in and saw shadows in the dim, flickering light of an oil lamp resting on a small table.

“Clarke?” His voice rang loudly in his ears.

There was no answer, and when he turned the corner, he saw her seated on the floor, steadily pounding the side of her head against the wall.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” Alarmed, he quickly approached her.

Her eyes were open but there was a hauntingly vacant expression in them, like she was somewhere else, somewhere where the memories were not memories, but happening right at that moment.

Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, her nose red and dripping, but she never once lifted her hand to wipe it away. He caught movement and looked down to see she was holding something, turning it over and over in her hand. He knelt down beside her and upon getting a closer look, he saw it was a two-headed dear—much like the one they saw that day in the forest, so long ago when they were full of hope and wonder at this new world they had been dropped into.

“Clarke, stop.”

She didn’t so he reached up and placed his hand between her head and the wall, wincing as his knuckles smashed the wall between them. As her head hit his hand, her movements became more erratic and her tears became audible, raging with frustration and what he recognized as self-loathing. He tried to pull her away from the wall towards him, but she fought him, trying to push his arms away.

The noises she made tore him up and ripped him apart from the inside like knives. He felt his lower lip tremble involuntarily as he tried again, and again to stop her. He slipped his hand around to her forehead and felt the tangles of tear soaked hair under his fingers as he pulled her to him. Her wails turned raw as her arms flailed like birds trying to escape the confines of his embrace.

His eyes blurred and the muted colors of the room ran together in the dim light.

Finally he forced her head to his chest in an attempt to calm the hysterical wails erupting from her, and held it there as she clutched the front of his jacket. He eased back on his knees and pulled her against him, forcing her to let him take most of her weight. He knew she didn’t want to let it go; the weight and constant movement allowed her to keep going. He knew that because he held his own burden the same way. They all had to keep moving.

He pried her hand, the one that held the deer figurine, off his jacket and slid his fingers through hers, pressing the deer between their palms so she knew it was still there. He felt a sharp pain and the slick wetness of blood followed, but he let it run. He didn’t care—it was so minor compared to the hurt that shattered within, cutting like shards of glass. 

He don’t know how long they sat there in the dimming light of the lamp, he was only aware of the feel Clarke in his arms, her hand threaded in his, and the low, throbbing ache in his chest.

Her sobs eventually turned into gasping whimpers as the hysterics eased, whimpers into the occasional hiccup, and then silence.

“I’m so sorry, Clarke,” he whispered into her hair. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I didn’t realize—”

He fell silent because what he said wouldn’t really matter in the end.

“How did you find me?” Her voice rasped abrasively in her throat, like sandpaper against metal.

Monty paused before responding. How was he supposed to explain it was his dream-self that had heard her—and a dream that had led him to her?

“I was out in the woods—I heard you and followed the sound.”

“Oh.” She pulled against his embrace, her hand sliding away from his. He let her go, aware that his fingers took a long time to unclench from around her arm. She rubbed her nose and brushed the hair off her forehead, smearing her face with the blood from her hand. She didn’t even know she was cut.

“Your hand…”

She looked down at her hand, her eyes widening. And without thinking, Monty leaned forward, and with the pad of his thumb, and attempted to wipe the blood off her cheek.

Suddenly he felt her hands cradling his injured palm. “You’re hurt, too…I’m sorry.”

He tilted her chin up so she was forced to let his hand go. “Don’t worry about it, Clarke” he said firmly. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”

She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes again, leaving it there for a brief moment before looking back at him. “I’ve never once thought you were fragile, Monty.” She gave a shuddery sigh. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He ignored the dismay that rose within him, and brought his thumb to her cheek again, half expecting her to push him away. But she didn’t, letting him wipe the blood and tears away.

“Why?” He shook his head in quiet exasperation, unable to keep silent. “Why couldn’t you let me be responsible for me? What is it that makes you see me differently?”

 She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“I don’t know…Bellamy was so angry and impulsive, and just…always there, questioning me. I had sort of resigned myself that he might do something that would get himself killed, so I just wanted to prevent others from dying along with him. And Finn—” she broke off and looked at her lap.

Monty had heard about the massacre at the Grounder village. It had shocked him—until he’d chosen a similar path. Now it just made him sad and very depressed.

“I often felt like I was babysitting him.” She let out a watery laugh and looked up. “I never had to worry that you would kill anyone or do something stupid based on your ego. Despite what you seem to think, it wasn’t just your knowledge of biology that I wanted you to stay out of harm’s way.”

A tear slipped down her cheek which he absentmindedly brushed away.

“I thought I was keeping you safe. It never occurred to me that I was treating you like a child. And I never meant for you to feel like I didn’t trust you, or abandoned you, Monty, when I left Mount Weather. I didn’t even know if I would make it out alive, and all my thoughts were on getting out so I could come back.”

She looked down at her scarred wrist, touching it carefully.

“I didn’t want to lose anyone else I cared about.”

There was a roar in his ears, like the ocean waves he had heard in videos, back on the Ark. His heart pounded so loudly, he was afraid she could hear it. He dropped his hand from her face as though she had burned him.

“What is that?” He nodded at the deer head. His voice sounded strange in his own ears.

“Finn made it for me.”

The waves crashed and then withdrew.

“Oh.” He looked at the lamp; the oil was almost gone. “I’m sorry about Finn.”

“Me too,” she whispered, staring at it. Her eyes were shiny, nose and cheeks blotchy red, freckles standing out even more profoundly than before. She turned the deer over in her fingers. “I kept it because it reminds me of the lives I’ve taken and the choices I’ve made.” She looked up. “I’ve realized this war is not about justice or right and wrong…it’s about survival, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

Monty was quiet as he digested what she had said. She was right about it being about survival. But it couldn’t stay that way, not if they were going to last.

“Until recently I always saw it as Sky People versus Mountain Men versus Grounders,” he said finally.

The lamp dimmed and then burned brighter.

“But it can’t be that way. We carry baggage much older than we are, and it will eventually break us if we don’t do anything about it—just like it broke the people who lived here centuries ago. The patterns are there, and if we don’t recognize them or learn from them, we will make the same mistakes and all of this will be for nothing. ”

She nodded and looked at him searchingly, worried.

“What about you, Monty? Are you okay?”

He glanced down at her. “What do you mean?”

“How are you doing?”

He shrugged, and gave a small, quick smile. “Oh, you know. I’m okay. I miss my parents, but I’m okay.”

Her eyes searched his face and her brows drew together. He knew she didn’t believe him, but he looked away, and she didn’t push.

“I’m sorry, Monty. I would take it all away if I could.” She shook her head in exhaustion. “But I know I can’t.”

“I would never want you to,” Monty replied quietly, staring off over her head. “It’s my burden, and I have to carry it…just like you.”

“I know. But that’s who I am…” She turned away from him and looked at the lamp, which dimmed again. “I don’t know any other way to be.”

The light went out and they were left in the darkness they knew so well.

“Me too.”

 

On his long walk back to Camp Jaha, Monty allowed his mind the freedom to run far away from his physical body. He usually tried to keep it empty, as the clutter of his worries, fears, and longings were too heavy for him to carry and still get through another day. 

Not tonight.

He had left her there in the inky dark, with the promise that if she needed anything she’d leave a message for him: the two-headed deer on the rock by the river. In return, he’d promised not to tell anyone about the bunker. She’d gripped his hands so tightly her fingernails dug into his injured palm, and of course he’d promised. What else could he do?

But he worried. He worried that she would get hurt again, that she’d be alone and in pain, and have no one to help her. He knew it was her own choice, but he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like it at all.

As he passed through the darkened woods, he could still feel her in his arms, her presence burned on him like the sun burned the skin of his cheekbones—hot and prickly. He looked up into the sky filled with stars and planets and wondered if he would ever know what it was like to hold her in a different way—as a man holds his lover.

But that thought was quickly dashed.

 _You are not Finn._ He told himself. _You never will be Bellamy. Forget it, Monty. You will remain as you always have been—low hanging fruit._

 

Over the next few weeks, autumn turned into winter, and the trees shed their leaves in a silent rain. The animals developed thicker coats, and were scarcer to find.  

His hand healed.

He spent most of his time alone now. Jasper still ignored him, but he found he couldn’t care anymore. The pain of his damaged friendship was buried so deep in his heart, he had already lost its location if he wanted to dig it up again. He didn’t have the energy to mourn that loss right now.

Frustrated with her lack of movement, Raven was cranky a lot of the time, so he showed her some of the dagger skills he’d picked up. He wanted to help her feel like she defend herself. They only stopped when she accidentally stabbed through one of the transmitters in a rather aggressive move, and set it on fire. They had laughed about it, though it took them two days to repair.

It had felt good to laugh.

He often thought about Clarke, and checked the river to see if she’d left him anything—but there never was.

 

On the day the first snow fell, Monty saw the wolf for the first time outside his dream.

There had been a strange sort of low hanging cloudy cover in the sky he had never seen before, and it made the camp feel oppressive, so grabbing his bow and daggers, he’d left before the breakfast bell had rung.

He made his way into the woods, watching his breath rise in front of him, like fog, as he walked the now familiar path to the river. 

When he reached the river, he jumped out onto the rock he now referred to as his. He often hunted from this position, remaining still until some animal came to drink.

He was crouched down when he saw it staring at him from across the water, silent and still. It was large, with grey fur and yellow eyes that never left his own, just like in his dream. Suddenly Monty felt afraid, though he didn’t know why. He was never afraid of it in his dreams, but now that it was here in reality, he found his heart rate rise and his instinct to flee kick in.

They watched each other for a few minutes, neither one of them moving, the silence broken only by the pounding of Monty’s own heart. He could see his breath rise when he breathed—in and out—and slowly he reached over his head, his gloved fingers closing around an arrow, which he drew out and cocked it in his bow with precision.

 

But before he could make a decision, Clarke appeared from the trees before him, freezing when she caught sight of his drawn weapon pointed at her. Her blond hair was loose about her face, and she wore a heavy green wool coat, sleeves and hood trimmed with fox fur. Her leggings were made of white leather and wool, and her boots had been patched. 

Monty glanced back at where the wolf had been, but was gone as though it had never been there.

“Clarke,” he acknowledged her, lowering his bow. “You scared away my wolf.”

She halted at that. “You saw the wolf? The grey one?”

He was surprised. “You’ve seen it too?”

“I thought I was the only one.”

“Me too.” He didn’t say the only times he’d ever seen it before today were in his dreams though…and that they were always tied to her.

The observed each other silently. It was strange. He hadn’t seen her in maybe a few weeks, but already there was something different about her.

He took the stepping stones over to her, jumping the last one and landing in the muddy rocks beside her.

He felt her eyes on him as she looked him over, taking in his appearance which he knew was remarkably different from the last time she’d seen him. It was much colder now, and he had had to adapt, just like everyone else.

He wore a hooded coat of felted green wool he’d pieced together from blankets. It was lined with coyote fur and had brass buttons he’d salvaged. He still wore his leather boots, and black pants, but over them, he wore buckskin leggings to keep out water and snow. It also provided an extra layer of insulation. On his hands he had fingerless leather gloves with felted wool mitten tops he could button up for more warmth.     

“You look different,” she said slowly.

“The clothes—”

“It’s not just the clothes.” She had a strange expression on her face. “It’s something…else.” Suddenly her forehead relaxed as it dawned on her. “It’s Lexa. You remind me of Lexa.”

He felt his face grow warm, despite the cold. He had heard of Lexa, but he’d never met her. He knew of the alliance and he had heard how deeply her betrayal had affected Clarke and shaken the confidence she’d always had in her judgement. Even now, he could see the dark smudges under her eyes, and the lines around her mouth that were not from laughing. 

“You look mostly the same,” he told her.

 _But you feel different_.

“Your hair has gotten longer.” He reached out tentatively, and picked up a lock of her hair that hung over her shoulder.

She looked down, startled at his touch.

 “I—I need to cut it.” She stuttered. It was so unlike her.

He vigorously shook his head. “Don’t cut it, not before winter comes.”

“What? Why?” Her eyes darted to his and then back down to her hair.

“It will keep you warm,” he explained, pushing the hair off her shoulders and tucking it into her hood behind her neck where his fingers lingered when they touched the heat of her skin.

“The back of your neck will get cold…”

She didn’t move, just watched him with her big eyes. It was under that gaze, he felt heat pool in his stomach. He quickly let go and stepped back, and her gaze dropped to the ground.

“Sorry, I—”

But he shut his mouth as little white flakes began to fall from the sky, sticking to their clothes, their hair, and the ground.

Clarke’s face took on a worried expression. “Is that ash?”

He looked up into the sky and felt the flakes whisper against his face before melting. It was so incredibly quiet.

He dropped his eyes to Clarke’s and gave her the first genuine smile he’d made in a long time.

“It’s not ash, Clarke. It’s snow.”

“Snow?” Her eyes widened. “Really?”

He watched as she held out her hand and with her eyes, followed the small ice crystals down to where they gathered on her glove

“Monty, they’re so beautiful.”

Her voice was filled with wonder, sweet and childlike in a way he’d never seen her before. Eyes bright, cheeks pink with cold, she looked alive and more beautiful to him than any snowfall could ever be.

“Yeah, they are,” he murmured, unable to tear his eyes off her.

They stood a few more minutes, and then he asked, “But what about you?” He gestured to her clothing. “It’s only going to get colder, and you’re exposed out here, not only to the elements, but to hungry animals.”

She nodded and sighed. “I know. I—I was thinking of moving into the bunker for the winter.”

“Not back to Camp Jaha.” It wasn’t a question.

She looked away. “I—I’ve gotten used to being by myself. I don’t know how easy it would be for me to have to spend so much time with other people. Maybe when the spring comes, and I can be outside more.”

Monty understood that. He also spent so much time alone that he couldn’t imagine having to share a tent with another person—unless it was someone he had more than just a friendship with.

For a brief moment he imagined Clarke was there with him, smiling as the sun made shadows on her face through the roof, but he quickly shut that picture out. It would never happen. There was no point in even fantasizing about it.

 “Will it stay like this?” Clarke asked him as they watched the snow begin to build at their feet, piling up in small drifts. “All over the ground?”

“Until it gets too warm. Then in will melt…until the next snowfall.”

“Right. Like ice.”

“Like ice,” he agreed with a small smile, blinking up at the snow filled sky, the little grayish white flakes falling silently around him.

“You can come visit me if you like.”

Monty froze and he dropped his eyes to her. She was looking at the river, not looking at him.

“At—at the bunker?”

She glanced at him, her eyes darting to his and then away again. “Only if you want to.”

“I’ll come,” he said quietly. “Of course I will.”

She relaxed and gave him a quick smile that seemed to melt the snow around him with its warmth.

“Good.”

 

And he did. Sometimes they played some of the board games that had been stored there for a future that never came. There was one called Monopoly, which just seemed like an analogy for everything wrong with the former American states, but was fun when not taken seriously. There was also a chess board, which Monty and Clarke already knew how to play. He liked it when they played chess, because he liked to see the way she made faces when she moved a pawn, the way she screwed up her nose when he made a move she didn’t like.

He liked chess because he liked watching her.

Other times, they hunted together, and cooked with the winter greens and berries Monty had determined edible. The first time he tried to roast a pigeon and ended up burning it—along with his fingers—she’d laughed at the look on his face.

It had been so long since he’d seen her laugh, he would have burned his fingers ten times over to see it again.

And he never broke his promise. He never told anyone where she was, though he’d had to make up excuses for why he missed dinner or wasn’t with Raven, working. He started bringing in fresh meat, and the questions stopped. Bellamy sometimes hunted with him, but on those days, he steered clear of Clarke’s camp and the Dropship.

Not that Bellamy wanted to go anywhere near the Dropship, either.

Sometimes people asked him where he went, but for the most part, they left him alone. They seemed to understand that there was nothing they could do to about what had happened to him, or his parents, or even what had occurred between him and Jasper. They saw him as a loner, and that was okay. Everyone knew someone who had gone off the grid, someone who’d lost someone, or something, and couldn’t find their way back out of whatever dark place they’d fallen into.

 

But while most people saw the darkness as a place they didn't want to be, it was in darkness more than light that he felt safe.

 

And then one day, all of that threatened to change.

He had gone to the river to see what he could catch in the slow moving water, his fishing pole in one hand, his bait in the other. There was a subtle shift in the air that made the dread in his chest expand and he knew something was wrong even before he emerged from the tree line to the river bank. He knew before he saw the footprints, and before he saw the two-headed deer carving in a patch of bloody pink snow.

His vision blurring at the edges, he slowly leaned over and picked up the two-headed deer, staring at its bloody face.

He turned and ran towards the bunker, hoping he would find her there, safe.

The first thing out of place he saw was the two horses tied out front.

The bunker door stood open, creaking in the wind, the snow in front of it marked by two sets of footprints. One leading away, and other going in.

Heart in his mouth, Monty drew his sword and crept through the doorway without making a sound.

Inside, he found a woman standing in the middle of the room, her back to him, silent and still.

“Where is Clarke?” He demanded. “Tell me?”

The woman didn’t move. “She’s gone.” Her voice was low and commanding.

“What do you mean gone? Who are you? And where’s the person with you?”

The woman still didn’t move. “She’s been taken. Raiders from the north…and there is only me here.”

“There are two horses.”

“That does not mean there are two riders.” Then she looked over her shoulder at him and he immediately knew who she was.

“Lexa.” He lowered his sword, but didn’t lower his guard. “What raiders?”

She turned around then, and he saw her face fully, dark eyes lined with paint, fierce, yet curious.

“I don’t recognize you. You look like a Grounder, but you are not.”

“What raiders?” He asked again.

“Slave traders… they raid villages and sell then to the Ice Nation, where they use slaves.”

Cold fear trickled through Monty, as she spoke. He had not known there was such a thing.  

She tilted her head, still watching him. “Who are you?”

He hesitated and she laughed, though there was little humor in it. “I can do nothing with your name.”

“Names are powerful things.”  

She looked surprised by that. “You are different from the others.” She moved towards him and he raised his sword again. She glanced at the blade and then met his eyes.

“That is Lincoln’s work.”

“Yes.”

She paused, then a pained expression crossed her features. When she spoke again, there was a softness to the edges of her voice.

“How is he?”

Monty considered the question before answering. “He has Octavia.”

She seemed to accept his answer, but she did not stop staring at him. 

“You are one from the Sky, yet I don’t remember you. You carry the weapons of the Woods clan, and you are wary of sharing your name. You already know who I am. We are on unequal terms here.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I understand. But we have a similar path.” She looked him dead in the eye. “To find our people and bring them back.”

He looked for a trick, for a hint of dishonesty in her, but he found none. He took a chance and lowered his sword again.

“My name is Monty. I was in Mount Weather during your short-lived alliance with Clarke.”

“Monty.” She said his name slowly, like it made her understand him better if she did. “With a name like that, maybe you were meant for the Mountain.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She ignored his question and pushed by him through the door. He followed, watching her untie the horses. She mounted one of them and stared down at him.

“I’m heading north, to bring my people home.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She stared at him but didn’t say anything.

“I need to bring Clarke home,” he persisted. “And I don’t know where to find her.”

“You cannot ride.”

“I will learn.” He looked at the beast before him, knowing his words were bigger than his actual confidence.

Lexa seemed to know this too, but she said, “I will take you, but we must leave now and you must keep up—we are already a day behind. I will not wait.”

He hesitated, but only for a moment. He would put his trust in her only so far as to get him to Clarke. After that, he wouldn’t rely on her for anything.

“Okay.”

 

They rode north-east, into the mountains Lexa called the Appalachia. Having never been on a horse, Monty found it difficult and extremely tiring, his back aching more than he ever thought possible. Even so, he still kept up, following behind her, watching how she moved in the saddle, how she held the leather reigns, and tried to imitate her. He also watched how she tracked—stopping every once and a while to observe whatever it was that told her where to go. He couldn’t figure out how she did it, though, other than the obvious trampled trail of footprints in the snow. There had to be more than that though, because they often disappeared, and she still found them again.

They stopped when it got too dark to see and slept for a few hours. Monty was too cold and too wired to sleep, no matter how exhausted he was. So for four hours he sat and watched the dark, shivering as Lexa slept, her sword at her side.

The following morning at dawn, she made a small fire and taking out a pot, boiled some snow. Taking some deer jerky out of her pack, she handed him a piece which he took without preamble. She looked him up and down, taking in his long coat and chattering teeth.

 “You are dressed warmly, Monty. Yet you shiver and cannot sleep.”

“It’s very cold and I cannot stop thinking.”

She poured him a cup of hot water. “This is your first winter.” It wasn’t a question. He took it gratefully. “Yes.” The hot liquid brought some relief to his insides, melting the ice he was sure had formed there.

He watched as she looked up into the clear, watery-blue sky. “There is no winter up there.”

“There is nothing but black space and stars,” he replied. The heat was bringing feeling back to his fingers.

“But you know much about the ground—more than any other Sky person I have met.”

He thought about not answering, but she seemed only curious to know who he was, not to gain information to use against him, so he answered her.

“They took the secrets of life with them, those who fled to the Ark. My parents learned how to keep plants, and they taught me.”  

She nodded slowly and didn’t say anything more. He didn’t either.

 

That day they rode all day, stopping only briefly to give the horse’s water and food, and then again for a few hours of sleep in the darkest part of the night. Monty finally slept, too exhausted not to. He was jolted awake only when Lexa shook him by the shoulder.

 

The sun had already passed well over the sky when Lexa held out her hand, signaling him to halt. He pulled on the reigns, and the horse fell still.

They sat there for a very long time, listening. At first Monty heard nothing, but after he filtered through the sounds of the wintery forest, he caught the sound of a distant white noise, and faintly over the top of it, a crunching sound, like rock against rock far in the distance.

Lexa dismounted her horse and he did then same, leading her along by the reigns through the snowy pine trees. 

The sound grew louder, and louder, and eventually Lexa stopped again and signaled for Monty to join her.

“They are crossing over the falls,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “If they reach the pass beyond, we will be in the lower reaches of Ice Nation territory, and finding and rescuing them will turn more difficult.”

He nodded. “Tell me what to do.”

“We will leave the horses and ambush them, I will take them from the front, you will from the back—up the cliff face.” She met his eye. “You are prepared to kill?”

“Yes,” he replied firmly. He knew he would not hesitate, but he was still afraid. It gnawed at his stomach like an animal trying to get out, no matter how many breaths he took.

 

He followed her silently through the trees, his sword gripped tightly in his fist, the leather hilt rough against his calloused hand. In the other hand, he held his bow. The waterfalls were so loud, Monty felt disoriented. They couldn’t speak, so Lexa communicated solely with hand gestures, telling him where to go. They reached the bottom of the falls, and the forest opened to a wide, roaring river, the falls crashing down with a force that could crush anyone who fell into their deathly grip.

Lexa caught his eye and pointed. He followed her finger to the top of the falls, and saw the raiding party. He counted four people on each end who carried weapons, and ten in the middle. He couldn’t make out faces, and they were all covered in furs—he just hoped she was there.

Lexa was pointing in the direction she would go, and then motioned for him to go behind the falls and climb up and around where they had come from. He nodded, hoping he had understood, and with one last look into her solemn brown eyes, he turned and ran along the edge of the tree line and dashed under the falls.

There was nothing more he could do except what he promised—and trust her to do the same. The lives of her people and Clarke depended on it.

Heart in his mouth, he ran as swift as he was able, climbing up the cliff’s sloped face, hoping each rock he stepped on would not tumble out from underneath him as his boot bore his weight down on it. Once or twice he hit a patch of ice, but managed to catch himself each time.

He emerged at the top of the falls, the water tumbling out below him with great force, and followed the trail up towards the pass. The water’s white noise faded into a dull roar.

He came upon the first man not long after. For whatever reason, he was alone, and he never heard Monty coming.

Monty ran him through the heart from the back. Blood burbled out of his mouth, and without hesitation, Monty pushed the man off his sword. It slid out easily and he slumped to the ground.

He shot the second man from a distance, the arrow piercing his chest, sending him over the side of the cliff. This alerted his two companions, who turned around, frantically looking for him. When Monty rounded the corner of the cliff, he was met with a woman, snarling as she rushed towards him, another man behind her.

As his blade clashed with the woman’s, he heard shouting in front of him, and caught a flash of bright blonde hair. Adrenaline burst through him and he growled, pushing her away, their blades meeting again, and again as they parried. The trail was only about five feet wide, so he had to cut her down before he could move onto the next.

She eventually made a mistake and he drove his sword into her belly. When he pulled it out, she collapsed to her knees, dropping her own blade onto the stones. She stared up at him and he cut her throat, blood spraying across the rock.

Just beyond her was the body of one of the slaves, her hands bound together with rope. She had been used as a shield for the oncoming assault—and she had never seen it coming because she was blindfolded. They all were.

His blood ran to ice in his veins as he frantically searched for Clarke among the furor of people.

When he finally saw her, it took him a moment to recognize her.

She was wearing a large white fur coat, complete with the head of the wolf it had come from, and she was being held by an angry and frightened looking man, whose brown eyes darted back and forth in panic as he stared at Monty. He had her gripped by the neck with one hand, and his blade at her throat with the other. Blindfolded, she clawed at his arm, but he was too strong.

He yelled something at Monty, but it was in a tongue Monty didn’t understand. He shook his head and took a step forward.

The man pressed his blade into Clarke’s throat, and Monty immediately froze. The man backed up, dragging her with him.

“Stop!” he shouted in the common English tongue. “Drop the blade and don’t come any closer!”

Monty held up his sword in a show of surrender, and set it down, slightly behind him. Then he held his hands up and watched the man’s expressions shift as he frantically decided what his options were.

Monty took another step forward, slowly, while the man’s eyes weren’t on him. He could see Lexa over his shoulder, fighting a man with a large tattoo on the back of his head.

“She is a gift for my queen,” the man shouted. “You cannot have her!”

“She is not yours to take,” Monty said under his breath, and slowly reached for his dagger, never taking his eyes off the man before him.

If what he said was true, he wouldn’t kill her unless he had no other choice, Monty guessed. But he didn’t know the customs of the Ice Nation, or where their values lay. He couldn't take that chance.

He drew out the sharp blade and held it nimbly as his fingers remembered their training, and his mind recalled his aim.

“I swear I’ll cut her throat!”

Monty could tell he was growing desperate. He knew he was trapped. If he killed Clarke, he had nothing, if he didn’t, he would die.

Monty took that chance, and quicker than the man could decide which he valued more, his life or Clarke’s, he released the dagger and it struck right in the middle of the man’s forehead.

Not waiting to see how he would die, Monty ran forward. Shock etched on his face, the man stepped back, his blade clattering to the ground. Clarke was still tangled in his arms, and as he stumbled over the dead body of one of his companions, she cried out in confusion and terror. 

Monty caught her hand just as her captor pitched off the edge of the cliff, his eyes wide open in death.

Her hands were tied together, so it was her forearms that landed against his chest as she fell forward into his arms. He looked over shoulder to see if Lexa was in need of his help, but she was just finishing off the last one of the slavers when she caught his eye. She nodded once, and then she, and her people, were gone, leaving them alone with the dead and the distant sound of the water as it plunged over the cliff to the river below.

She wasn’t going to wait, but he hadn’t expected her to.

He turned to Clarke and was suddenly aware that she was, once again, in his arms, cheek on his shoulder, silent and still. He gently lifted her to her feet and untied her hands, letting the rope fall to the ground. Still she didn’t move and he wondered how she could be so calm when she had absolutely no idea who he was.

But then she said his name.

“Monty?” Her voice shook. “Is that you?”

Before he could answer, her hands were on his cheeks, her fingers brushing lightly over his eyelashes, and then stopped, pressing against his lips.

It didn’t matter, he was speechless anyway.

“It is you.”

He reached up behind her and untied the knot in the cloth. The blindfold fell away, and her blue eyes blinked up at him in the pale sunlight.

“How—” She shook her head in disbelief, mouth open.

“I found your deer.” He took it out of his coat and handed it to her. He watched as she turned it over in her hands.

“I can’t believe you found it,” she said quietly. “I dropped it there in the snow, hoping you would.”

“Are you hurt? There was so much blood—”

“It wasn’t mine,” she reassured him quickly. “It belonged to one of the—the others.”

Her voice broke at the end, and he was sure he didn’t want to know what had happened to the unfortunate person whose blood he had thought belonged to Clarke.

“You couldn’t possibly have killed all of them,” she said incredulously, looking around at all the bodies. “No one could.”

“No, I was with Lexa.”

Her head whipped back around. “Lexa? Lexa’s here?”

“She was, but she’s gone now.” He paused. “I made her take me with her. You’re right. I never would have been able to take on them all by myself, but I’m sure she could have.”

Clarke nodded. “You’re right. If anyone could, it would be her.”

He took the time to look her over, check for injuries or wounds. There was none, except for the rope burns around her wrists. She was remarkably well cared for someone who had been traveling on foot for four days.

But they had done something with her clothes. She was dressed in white leather leggings, a white doeskin tunic trimmed and lined with blue wool the color of sky. The wolf’s upper jaw sat on Clarke’s head, looking as though he was about to bite her head off. It was a bit disconcerting.  

“You came for me.”

He looked down from the wolf’s eyes, startled. She was staring at him like she’d only just discovered he existed.

“Why?”

He shook his head, confused. “I did what you would do. I entrusted Lexa to get me to you, which she did. She came for her people, and I came for mine.”

His words hung in the air between them, and he felt his face flush at the word, ‘mine.’ Why had he said that?

“But you came alone, Monty,” She shook her head. “I don’t think I ever would have done that.”

“I wasn’t alone.” He could hear the stubbornness in his voice. It made him sound childish, but he didn’t understand what she was trying to say. “I had to. Lexa said there wasn’t time. I had to go with her right then or she’d leave me behind. You’re our leader—we need you.”

“I haven’t been much of a leader lately.”

“Maybe. But I don’t ever ask myself, ‘what would Bellamy do?’ I know what Bellamy would do. I don’t ask what Raven or Octavia would do, I ask what Clarke would do...because I trust you more than anyone.”

“But what if Lexa—”

“What if Lexa what?” Monty interrupted impatiently. “Lexa be damned. I didn’t come out of some obligation or debt. I came because I wanted to. I’m not you, trying to save everyone, I’m selfish. I only save those I want to save…those who mean something to me.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about _anything_ other than saving her, no matter what Lexa did.

Blushing, he turned away. “Let’s get off this damn mountain,” he said. “We have a long way to go before we reach home.”

 

He collected his blade. She didn’t ask him anymore questions as they made their way down the cliff to the river, stepping over the bodies of the dead, and then into the forest where he and Lexa had left the horses. He was stunned to find there was still one waiting.

“I didn’t expect her to still be here.” He shook his head. “I thought she would have taken both of them.”

“She’s beautiful,” Clarke murmured, and he turned to her to see her gazing at the horse, her eyes soft. He felt a pang in his chest, something akin to jealousy.

He was jealous of a horse. That was a new low. _Even for you, Monty. What’s lower than low-hanging fruit?_

He shook his head, as though the thoughts might leave him if he did, and focused the task ahead. He checked the packs and found a small supply of jerky and water. They would have to hunt, and find shelter.

“A storm is coming.” Clarke was looking at the sky. “It smells like snow.”

He sniffed the bitter air. She was right. “Let’s go.”

He mounted the horse much more easily than he had three days ago, and then pulled Clarke up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he turned south, following the trail Lexa had forged coming north.

It began to snow just after the sun set, large flakes falling around them. When Monty could not see the trail any longer, he stopped and they made camp under a pine tree where the boughs were too thick for the snow to fall around its trunk. The forest floor was covered in a thick layer of pine needles, and they were dry.

He made a small fire pit with some stones while Clarke took his blade and went off to chop off some tree limbs. He was kindling some dry leaves and twigs when she returned with the wood, stripped and dry. Adding it to the fire, he got out the jerky and they ate.

The fire was warm, and it made him sleepy, his eyelids drooping…

“You should sleep, Monty.” Clarke’s soft voice startled him as it cut through the still night. “You must be very tired.”

He looked at her, blinking.

They stoked the fire, and lay down close together under the tree facing each other, pulling the one simple blanket they did have over their heads. It created a cozy little pocket of warm air that made Monty feel safe. He let his fingers creep towards her until he felt the soft fur of her coat. He buried his fingers into it, and when she shifted slightly, he knew she could sense he was there. Knowing she was there in the darkness comforted him more than any shelter ever could.

At dawn, they started out again, the world having changed overnight into a landscape covered in unblemished white. It was slow going, for the path had been covered in fresh snow, but both he and Clarke remembered certain parts of the landscape they’d seen, so they were confident they were headed in the right direction. 

They traveled for ten hours straight, stopping before nightfall to hunt while there was still enough light. Clarke had gone off with Monty’s bow, and had come across an abandoned den under the overhand of a large boulder, eroded over hundreds of years of rain and who knew what else. It smelled faintly of animal, but it was warm, and after a rather chewy meal of slightly overdone rabbit, she saw to the horse and he banked the fire.

Monty stretched his arms up over his head as he stood. There was something about the way the firelight and her hood created shadows, so he couldn’t see her clearly. He realized he hadn’t really seen her face since he’d found her, and it was without thinking he reached up and pushed the hood back off her hair.

“No—!”

His mouth dropped open. Half of her head had been shaved except for two rows of tightly braided hair that started at her hair line and went back to the nape of her neck, trailing down her back. The other half was long and loose. 

“Your hair...”

She looked painfully embarrassed. “I know it’s awful, it’s—”

“…it’s incredible.”

She stared at him, eyes wide.

“It is,” he protested, touching one of her braids. “Really. You look fierce…like a queen.”

She was still staring at him, and he blushed. He dropped his hand.

“But why?”

A series of emotions crossed her features and she looked away. “I—”

But she didn’t finish, and after a few awkward moments, he turned away, and finding a bit of ground near the warm embers, he lay down, and shut his eyes.

After a few minutes of listening to her murmur to the horse, who was tied up at the entrance, he heard her come over and lay down beside him in the dying firelight. His heart pounded at the realization of her proximity, and like the night before, he reached out his fingers to her coat.

“Monty? Are you still awake?”

“Hmm...”

“You wanted to know why I look this way.” Her low voice carried across the small divide between them.

“Only if you want to tell me,” Monty replied, fingering the fur lightly, waiting.

She took a deep breath. “I had a hood on for the first two days, and then I tried to escape. They were about to kill me, when it fell off and they saw my hair. One of the woman did my hair like this and put me in these clothes. She told me they were going to give her to the queen of the Ice Nation as a gift. When I was tired, one of them carried me. I was given food, too.”

He felt her shift, as though uncomfortable. “I’d never been so ashamed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time I turned around, I saw the others, their feet frozen, suffering from hunger and exhaustion, and I was warm and dry... protected. It wasn’t fair.”

He thought about that. “Maybe… maybe it could have been worse for you eventually.”

“No.” Her voice was so quiet he almost couldn’t hear her. “It wouldn’t.”

He knew she was probably right… and it wasn’t fair. But that was the nature of privilege. 

She was silent, and after a while he thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she spoke again.

“Monty?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel alone?”

“Alone?”

“I mean—I was thinking about what you said about seeing you differently, and I wondered if you ever feel alone, because no one around us looks like you.

Monty felt his face grow warm and a coldness settle in the pit of his stomach. “Because I'm Asian, you mean?”

She made a sound of distress. “I don't know if I'm asking the right questions, because I never thought about it before you told me. I've been thinking a lot about how I saw you, and I-I was trying to figure out if it was because of that baggage you spoke of. It's difficult for me to tell, and I realized if I can't tell, it probably was, and I-”

"Clarke." She shut up when he said her name. "It's okay. I understand what you're trying to say." 

Still, it bothered him that she’d noticed how different he looked next to her, next to all of them. But he supposed talking about it was better than denying it. That was something at least.

“I guess, I do... sometimes." He tried to make it sound like it didn't hurt, that it didn't matter, even though it did. 

"After we landed, I felt because I had this knowledge I was forced into a box. I had no choice in the matter, except to be what people expected me to be. It was as though someone was writing my life, and there was no reason for me to be here except to fill a role that was built on all the stereotypes that my ancestors faced here, before the war. I was never voluntarily given a weapon or asked to defend the camp, and yet someone like Murphy was. It was pretty demoralizing to see that no one thought I could possibly defend them, protect, them-and, well, if Jasper can get two girls to fall for him, and I can’t even get one, what does that say about me? I look different, but am I really so unattractive or awkward that no girl ever looked at me and thought anything other than how ugly I was?”

He tried to laugh, but it sounded as forced as it was, and he stopped, feeling the familiar pressure building in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so miserable, and was so consumed by it, he didn’t feel her shift closer until he felt her fingers on his cheeks, and he took in a quick breath, jerking slightly from her touch.

“Shh,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her fingertips moved over the plane of his cheekbone and his stomach flip-flopped.

“You’re not.”

“Not what?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“You’re not ugly, Monty, not even close.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“You're beautiful. I've always thought so.”

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, the sensations of her fingers distracting him from coherence.

“Your cheekbones…” She touched his eyelashes. “…your eyes…” She then brushed his lips with her fingertips. “Your lips…though I only _really_ noticed them the night you rescued me from the river, when you told me stories about the sun and the moon, and the boy in the stars. I thought I was going to die, but then you said you wouldn’t let me. So I watched your beautiful face and listened to your voice, and I knew I would be okay.”

His mouth was so dry, his heart thumping so wildly against his chest, he wasn’t able to reply.

When she spoke again, it was with regret etched deep into her tone. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Monty...I tried to protect you, but it’s you who keep saving me.”

Her hands dropped from his face, and as the cold air seeped between them, he reached out and pulled her back, his hands around her waist.

She made a sound of surprise, but didn’t pull away, letting him hold her there, his mouth inches from hers as he looked down at her.

Her eyes were wide, this he could tell. An intense need overtook him and he did the only thing he knew might make it better—he kissed her.

Her lips, while chapped, were warm and soft, and they parted beneath his without hesitation. He registered this somewhere in the part of his mind not consumed by how good she felt, how every time her tongue met his, pangs of desire would shoot through his lower belly.

At any time, he was sure she would come to her senses and pull away from him, but she never did, her hand on his upper arm, gripping the muscle as she clung to him.

The embers made soft shadows on the walls of the cave, and beyond the entrance, snow had begun to fall again.

After what could have been hours or only a few minutes, exhaustion finally washed over them in waves too strong to resist, and their kisses become fewer and fewer.

Monty listened as her breathing evened out, and became deeper. He took her hand and held it as her breath a warm breeze on his hand. Eventually, he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and he fell asleep, the taste of her on his lips, her fingers wrapped in his.

 

During the night, another storm hit, and when they woke the world was buried in a white blanket, whiter than Clarke’s coat. Monty felt his stomach tighten in anxious fear. He didn’t seem to recognize anything around him.

While Clarke looked to the horse, Monty went out to see if he could find the path they’d been on before the storm hit.

Just as he’d feared, he couldn’t find it. Nothing looked familiar.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” he said when he heard her approach behind him. He kicked a snow drift in frustration. “I don’t have a clue where we are.”

She looked up at the sun, the intense winter light bright on her smooth skin. Intensely aware of the tattoo of her mouth on his, he looked away before something possessed him to get more.

She eventually pointed up at the sky. “Well, if we follow the sun while it’s out, and head south, we will see something eventually—something we’ve seen before. Mount Weather is large enough to see, and maybe we will encounter something we’ve come across before.

He glanced at her warily. “Like Grounders?”

She met his eyes briefly, and he was sure at one point her gaze fell to his lips. “I hope not.”

They walked mostly in silence. The horse was too tired to carry riders, and hungry, and Monty didn’t want her to die. She had been a gift—a strange one-but a gift all the same.

Neither of them spoke about what had happened between them, and he began to wonder if he remembered it right. He knew he had.

He briefly considered she might have said what she did about him being beautiful to make him feel better, but deep down he knew she meant it. Clarke was one of those people who had a tendency to wear her thoughts and feelings where everyone could see them, and because of this she was easily and deeply hurt. He could sense this whenever Lexa or Finn came up, or even Wells, who now had been dead almost a year. He wondered if she had ever grieved for him properly, because if she had, it had been in the privacy of a place no one was privy to.

That made sense though.

Monty had learned long ago, that if he let everyone see how deeply he felt, they would use it against him. Except for Jasper, he’d never let anyone near enough to touch his inner most thoughts and feelings.

_And look how that turned out._

But now he had one other to add to that tiny list in his heart, and it was frightening.

 

Bone weary and cold, they trudged through the snow, too exhausted to speak. Monty thought he might have recognized a landmark, but he couldn’t be sure because everything was buried in snow. It also slowed them down, being so deep.

It took them hours to travel very little, and as the sun set, they were nowhere close to anything they recognized, and another storm blew down from the north. The winds blew sideways, and they were beaten from their path.

“We have to stop!” Clarke shouted over the wind. “We’ll get completely lost if we don’t!”

Monty knew she was right. He wasn’t convinced he wasn’t already lost, though.

Finding the largest tree they could, they stopped underneath it. Clarke managed to clear some grass long enough for the horse to eat, before it was covered again by the snow.

That night they could not stay warm.  Shivering, they huddled together in the dark, unable to light a fire because of the damp. Their extra blanket had gone to the horse, so they had only their hoods to keep the snow off their heads.

Their teeth chattered and Monty’s back hurt where the puncture scars were. He kept shifting to try and alleviate the pain, but it didn’t work. Finally Clarke asked him what was wrong.

“The scars from the needles they used when they harvested my marrow,” he informed her. “They ache when I get cold or I push myself too much. That’s all.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Monty looked over at her worried face and shook his head. “No. Not really.”

They didn’t speak again, but while he was dozing, Monty felt Clarke’s hand slid under his coat and rest on the small of his back, over the scars. Her hands were warm and the tenderness of her gesture that both touched him and made his heart ache. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, Monty was awakened to the feeling that they were not alone. The storm had grown weaker, but the snow was still falling. Blinking his eyes against the flurries of white, he found himself staring into a pair of familiar yellow eyes.

It was the wolf.

Unafraid, Monty watched as it trotted towards him, stopping about a foot away and sitting before him. He glanced at the horse, but she ignored the wolf. It clearly didn’t bother her.

“Hey, boy,” Monty whispered, not wanting to wake Clarke. “How did you find us?”

The wolf cocked its head at him, and holding his breath, Monty slowly reached his hand out to it. It sniffed him and then licked his fingers, the rough warmth of his tongue, hot against Monty’s cold skin.

The wolf came closer, and then curled up between them, resting it’s head on Clarke’s knee. Stroking the head, Monty fell back asleep, knowing somehow, everything would be okay.

 

He woke later to Clarke whispering his name, her breath hot on his ear. “Monty.”

He opened his eyes and was almost blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the snow. He suddenly remembered the wolf, and he sat up, alert. The wolf stood in front of them, waiting.

“He came last night,” Monty said groggily, attempting to extricate himself from the pulling claws of sleep. “He kept us warm.”

Clarke never took her eyes off the wolf. “I thought it was a dream,” she said softly. “He’s always been there in my dreams.”

Monty looked over at her so fast, a muscle in his neck strained. He was suddenly very awake. “You dream about him?”

She didn’t seem to notice his shock.

“Ever since the night you rescued me from the river. Not every night, but occasionally. Until I saw him for real, I thought he was just in my dreams…then you told me you saw him.”

She looked over, uncertainty clear on her face. “Did you dream about him too?”

Monty nodded. “Same as you…after the river.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah,” Monty echoed. “Strange.”

He rose and went to the wolf. It trotted away. He tried to approach it again, but he always moved away, out of reach.

“I think he wants us to follow him,” Monty called over his shoulder to Clarke, who was packing up their meager supplies.

He waited for her to join him, and she did, leading the horse, who was still not afraid of the carnivorous creature that should have had her frothing in terror.

“This should strike me as mad, but since I’ve been following him in my dreams, it doesn’t seem nearly as crazy to follow him in reality,” Clarke said, shaking her head.

She was staring at the wolf with a strange expression, and Monty knew exactly how she felt.

 

So they followed the wolf, trusting it knew where they needed to go. By mid-day, Monty was tripping over his feet. He didn’t even notice he was in familiar surroundings until they heard shouting.

Clarke heard it first, stopping so suddenly, he ran into her.

“Oof! Monty, do you hear that?”

He listened, twisting his head so his ear was to the sky, but all he heard was the wind. “No, I—”

He looked around. The wolf was gone. Then he heard it. A shout. He whirled around and looked in the direction where Clarke was squinting, shielding her eyes from the sun and blinding snow.

“Is that Bellamy?” Clarke asked in astonishment. “And Miller?”

Monty squinted against the sun and the blinding snow, and watched as they came closer and closer.

“It is!” Her voice was filled with excitement. “Monty!”

She gripped his arm tightly.

“Clarke! Monty!” Bellamy’s voice rang over the snowy hills, and Clarke let go of him, and ran towards them as fast as she could.

Monty watched as Bellamy scooped Clarke up into a hug and rocked her back and forth, her feet swinging side to side. An unwanted twinge of pain tugged his chest, and he tore his eyes from them and looked at Miller.

He approached, smiling, and took Monty’s hand, pulling him into a hug.

“Where have you been, man? Everyone’s been so worried!”

“Clarke,” Monty said, feeling the exhaustion creep up. He was light-headed and feeling a little dizzy. “I had to find her.”

Miller frowned. “She’s been MIA for months. Why now?”

“It’s a long story--”

Suddenly he was in a bone-crushing hug, as what he realized were Bellamy’s arms wrapped around him. Monty closed his eyes and he hugged him back. He hadn’t realized that he’d been missed as much as he had, and he was touched.

“Where’d you get the horse, Monty?” Bellamy asked him, looking over his shoulder. “It looks like it came from a Grounder.”

“She was,” Clarke answered for him, patting the animal on the back. “She’s been wonderful, just like Monty. I’m sure she’s really hungry.”

 “Just like Monty? Then we should feed her, and you can tell everyone where you’ve been for the last six months and why you’ve got a wolf eating your head,” Bellamy teased, patting the wolf’s nose.  

“Yeah, I do owe you a story,” she said softly, looking up at him with a smile.

Monty watched her, eyes glowing with affectionate warmth, and felt the familiar flip-flop of dread in his stomach. He turned away.

 

They arrived at the gates of Camp Jaha to a crowd of people, all wanting to know where they’d been. He saw Clarke’s mother pull her into her arms, and for a brief moment he looked around for his own parents.

Then he remembered they weren’t there, and they never would be again. Loneliness bubbled up within him and he suddenly felt unable to bear it. He wanted to run away into the familiar woods where there was only peace and silence.

He was standing with Miller, lost inside his mind, when he was suddenly tackled from behind, arms squeezing him around the middle. His breath left his lungs with a whoosh.

“…stupid idiot, I thought you’d gone off and got yourself killed!”

Gasping for air, Monty looked down in shock at the curly head currently buried in his shoulder. 

“Jasper?”

Jasper flung his head up. His cheeks were stained with tears. “I’m sorry I blamed you Monty, I’m sorry for everything—and your parents… I’ve been the worst friend.”

Monty pulled his friend into his arms and hugged him tightly, feeling his own eyes prick with tears.

“It's okay,” he whispered into Jasper’s ear. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

And it didn’t, at least for that moment. The wound his friend had left inside his heart lessened, and though it probably would never go away fully, he knew he was strong enough to carry it. He would be stronger for it. 

 

Eventually he was tugged away from Jasper and ordered to report to Kane and Abby Griffin for debriefing and a medical check-up. Clarke had already gone, but before he could go, Monty had to make sure his horse would be taken care of. He pressed the reigns into Bellamy’s hands. Bellamy looked up at him in surprise.

“Make sure she’s fed, and cleaned, and she has a warm place to sleep, okay? I want you to do it, Bellamy.”

Bellamy’s face softened. “Don’t worry, Monty. I’ll take care of her.”

“She probably would like carrots if there are any, and—”

But he was interrupted when Bellamy forcibly turned him around and gave him a little push, laughing. “Okay, okay, Monty, go already. Go tell them of your heroics, saving the girl!”

Monty watched him lead the animal away, and then realized he didn’t know her name. He wondered if she even had one, because if she did, Lexa had never told him. He would have to think of one.

 

When he arrived at medical, Clarke was seated on a table. He stopped and stared. Her coat had been discarded and her dress was untied, one shoulder exposed as her mother listened to her heart.

Monty felt his face heat up as he stared at her exposed clavicle, the bone’s curves creating a little dip he longed to put his fingers into.  

“So,” Marcus said, interrupted his reverie. He was looking at him solemnly, his voice stern. “I hear you went on a rescue mission by yourself?”

Monty glanced at Clarke, but she now had her mouth open as her mother shone a light down her throat, and was paying no attention to him.

“I wasn’t alone,” he said defensively, feeling as though he were constantly repeating himself. “I was with Lexa, the leader of the Woods Clan.”

Marcus frowned. “Lexa? The last I heard she’d betrayed Clarke and left us to die in Mount Weather. What were you doing with her?”

Monty shrugged lightly. He could hear the subtly of Kane’s tones shift into interrogation mode, and he knew he was treading into dangerous waters. The way Kane had behaved in the aftermath of Mount Weather, you’d think there were traitors and Grounders around every corner.

“It doesn’t change that she helped me to find Clarke,” he said pointedly. “I had to go after her.”

“Why didn’t you wait, and bring back up?” Marcus shook his head, obviously not understanding. “You know how risky that was?”

“If I hadn’t gone then, we wouldn’t have been able to find her. Lexa knew where to go, so I took the chance and went with her. Are you saying I should have let her go?”

“You should have come back to camp so that it could be decided by—”

“By who?” Monty’s voice rose and people looked at him, including Clarke and her mother, but he didn’t care. “By you? If I hadn’t gone, she might be in the hands of the Queen of the Ice Nation by now. I did what I had to, and I won’t apologize for it.”

Marcus searched his face silently. After a while he nodded. “Go and get checked out,” he ordered. “Then eat. You look like a starving kitten.”

Feeling miffed at the comparison to a kitten, Monty grudgingly did as he was told, finding another doctor to look him over. Except for his sore joints and exhaustion, he was deemed fine, and sent off to the kitchens for food. He passed Clarke on the way out and waited a moment to see if she would acknowledge him. But she was speaking with Marcus, and didn’t even realize he was there. So he left, a hard ball of ice in his stomach.

 

At the kitchen he was given a mild soup, which he ate reluctantly. He knew he needed to eat, but he didn’t want to. It tasted like nothing but wet ash in his mouth. When he was finished, he went to his tent, and not bothering to wash or change, he lay down and fell asleep the moment his head touched his pillow.

When he woke up, it was dark out, and briefly, he thought he was still out in the woods surrounded by snow. Then he remembered he was home, in his waterproofed tent, warm and dry. He got up and took off his filthy clothing. He shivered as he washed himself in the icy water in the metal basin, scrubbing the dirt away until he was clean and didn’t smell like horse and sweat.

He dressed, and was just pulling the sweatshirt Clarke had given him on over his head, when he felt a cold breeze of his tent being opened, and then stillness as it shut. He knew it was her without even having to turn around.

“Clarke,” he said softly, looking at his reflection in the water. When he turned, he found her looking around the tent. His bed was piled with the furs of animals he'd trapped, and there was a rough wooden table, his first effort at woodworking. He had a lamp and a few candles Harper had made. He liked how they flickered.  

“I had a difficult time finding you,” she said. “No one could tell me exactly where you were, just that you were off in the northern corner, away from everyone else.

He let his eyes wander over her: her hair had come undone from its braids, framing her cheeks.

“I like it back here. It’s quiet.”

She nodded, walking around the side, her fingers drifting over the rough wood of the table. “I can see that.”

She was still wearing the clothes she’d come home in, but she wasn’t wearing the wolf coat. Now that she was dressed, he could tell why the raiders had made her change. The blue wool and the white leather made her look incredibly ethereal. When she noticed he was staring, she grimaced, mistaking his gaze for judgement.  

“I washed but don’t have anything else right now. Bellamy hasn’t stopped giving me crap about my hair and that stupid wolf coat since we got back.”

At the mention of Bellamy’s name, Monty felt his face collapse. Clarke must have noticed too, because her smile faded.

“I think it’s beautiful,” he told her not knowing what else to say.

“Thank you."

 “Are you going back to the bunker?”

“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I was considering it.”

“Oh.”  

The silence fell again, and then grew larger until it threatened to become a gulf that couldn’t be crossed. Monty couldn’t let that happen, so he pushed down his fear and looked at her steadily.

“Why are you here, Clarke?”

She looked up, startled. “I wanted to see you.”

Monty’s heart thudded against his ribs. “Why?”

“Why not? You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

Monty shook his head slowly. “I don’t want to be your friend.”

He saw a flare of what he could only call anguish cross her features, and it hurt, but he couldn’t do this anymore.

“Okay, then why did you give me the sweater?”

The question was abrupt, biting, coming at him from nowhere, and for a moment he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“What sweater?” He asked dumbly. Then he remembered, but it was too late, the words were already out of his mouth.

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “The sweater you were wearing the night at the river. Why did you give it to me? It wasn’t like I needed it.”

Monty hesitated. “I got it in Mount Weather,” he said evasively, not looking her in the eye.

“That’s it? You got it inside Mount Weather.”

She was glaring and in made him mad.

“It reminded me of the cages, okay?” His voice was harsh in his ears and he looked away. “Is that what you want to know? I didn’t want it anymore, because it hurts too much to remember.”

She was silent for a long time, searching him, as though looking for a sign. When she did speak, her voice sounded strangely emotional, but distant.  

“I had it on when they took me.”

He looked up. Why was she telling him this?

“After I was taken, they burned all my clothes including the sweater. I asked for it back, but they wouldn’t let me have it. I thought if I was able to keep something from you, it wouldn’t be so bad. But as I watched it burn, I realized it didn’t matter.”

A single tear spilled out of the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.

“I knew I was never going to see you ever again, anyways. A sweater wasn’t going to change that.” She tilted her head at him, her shoulders lifting slightly as though she were trying to keep it all inside. “But then you came. I knew it was you the moment fell against you-the way you felt, your scent. I would know you anywhere.”

Monty’s heart fluttered in his chest like a bird in a cage as he watched the tears slide down her cheeks, one after another.

“You put yourself in danger, but I’m not worth it. I—I make stupid decisions and trust the wrong people—I killed the only guy I’ve ever been with—and I can’t protect you or anyone. You shouldn't have come for me.”

“I will always come for you, Clarke.” The words slipped out so easily. “Always.”

She stared at him and then her face crumpled and she let out a sob that wrenched from her throat, raw and hard. She covered her face with her hands.

“Why? I’m nothing—”

“You’re not nothing,” He said. “You’re everything to me… can’t you see?”

He looked up briefly to the roof of the tent. Even though he could not see the stars, he knew they were there, shining down on them. His voice trembled as he spoke of what he had dared not speak or think about since that night.

“At the river, when I told you I was stargazing, I was lying. The truth was…” he swallowed hard, his throat dry. “The truth was I was wondering if life was still worth living after everything that happened. You’d left, Jasper wouldn’t talk to me, and I’d lost my parents.”

He couldn’t pretend anymore, and he was suddenly struck with the reality of how he saw himself—wretched and unlovable. All the fears and doubts he’d held so deep within himself, festering like a wound that would not heal, spilled out in an unimaginably painful confession, leaving the shadows.

“I’ve never really been the brave one,” he admitted painfully. “I’m not like the others—not even Jasper, and he was my best friend. I’m not a leader like you, and I don’t always know how to express myself in ways that people can understand. After Mount Weather it was hard, and I—I was looking into the water, and I thought it would be so easy to just give myself to it, let it take me away from the place where I wasn’t needed and wasn't wanted-not how I wanted to be wanted.”

He looked up into her beautiful face, and he ached to touch her.

“But then you appeared out of the woods. I saw your hair gleaming, even in the dark. And I thought, okay, maybe this is a sign. Maybe it means something.  Then you fell in, and the current was taking you just as I had imagined it would take me, and I couldn’t let it. I had to go in to get you, and it was so very cold. Your head was bleeding and you kept babbling about the star trees and the weeping angels. I thought you would die before I could help you.”

She looked distressed, but he couldn’t stop. He had to tell her.

“You asked me if you were dying, and I was so afraid. You were staring up at me with your eyes, so big and blue in the starlight, and I thought…I thought, this person could be a reason to live…but I had to save you first. So I did everything I could.”

He shrugged, tears slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t even try to stop them anymore. He had nothing else to offer her, except his bruised heart.

“And that’s why I came for you, Clarke. Because you are everything to me.”

“I knew,” she sobbed. “Somehow I knew if anyone came for me, whether it was months or years, it would be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.”

His lungs filled in a rush of air, and the hope for something he never thought possible rose within him. It was a fragile thing, so precariously balanced that one push either way was the difference between its destruction or its blossoming into something more.

 “My chest hurt, so much I couldn’t breathe when I thought I’d never see you again. All I had was your sweater. You see, I didn't ever wash it. I just slept in it, so it still smelled like you, and when they took it away-I was lost and you were gone and I realized that it was what love is supposed to feel like.”

He froze.

"I love you, Monty. I love you so very much." 

Even as she looked up at him, the truth in her eyes, he was terrified. “You love me?”

“I love you,” she said again, taking a step towards him, but then stopping, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Monty let out the breath he was holding and it became a sob of relief. He looked at the ground as it blurred before his eyes. “I never thought—I’ve loved you for so long, but I never thought you could ever feel that way about me.”

She shook her head in dismay. “How could you think that? You are so wonderful and good, and you are so brave… so much braver than I ever gave you credit for.”

She pressed her hand to her forehead, her eyes downcast, as though hiding them from him might convince him what she said about herself was true. Her shoulders sagged with the invisible weight of one whose soul had shattered into pieces and had to be picked up one by one, and glued back together.

"I don't deserve you," She said softly, through the tears. “I’m broken.”

“Don’t say that, Clarke.” His throat felt raw with agony. “Don’t ever say that.”

The air was heavy, thick with the anguish and pain of two people who felt so desperately alone and unworthy of the love they had to give. It was Monty who found his way out of the shadows first, reaching out to her.

“You are so much more than you could ever know.”

He saw her sharp intake of breath, and her chest heave, and he wanted to touch her so badly. He stepped towards her and reached out. His fingers caught her wrist, the one on her forehead, and he brought to his chest, pulling her close. His heart was beating so hard.

He gazed down at her parted lips and said,  

“Can you feel what you do to me?” Her eyes darkened to the deepest blue. “You think that you aren’t worth it, but I would die for you, Clarke. You make my soul burn and my blood sing. You’re my starlight—even if you leave, I will always be able to find you. Always.”

Then he leaned forward and kissed her for the second time. Her mouth opened on a whimper and he slid his tongue against hers. It was rough and soft at the same time, and as desire coursed through him, his skin grew hot. She sank into him, pressing her hands on his chest, fingers gripping at his shirt.

He grasped her waist, finding the curve between her hipbone and her ribs with his fingers, pressing his fingertips into the softness there.

Clarke’s fingers slid up over his shoulders to his neck, as she bit his lower lip gently. Goosebumps scattered across his scalp, and he took her hands and threaded his fingers through hers, the skin around their knuckles sliding against each other, fingertips finding the sensitive place between each finger.

She tasted of salt and smoke, and he reached up and cupped her cheek.

“I love you,” Monty murmured against her lips. “I love you.”

Then he dragged his mouth over hers again, kissing her as his mind scrambled to catch up. It couldn’t. Her mouth was too distracting, too wet and warm, so he let it go and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

But it was not close enough. He grasped her under her ribs and lifted her up onto his sad excuse for a table, moving in between her legs.

"Oh!" The skirt of her dress rode up exposing the white skin of her thighs, and he gripped them with his fingers. He pressed into the tender muscles and found hard and soft, strong, and yet so very feminine.

He took advantage of her open mouth and kissed her again, deeply, wondering how he ever thought kissing would be hard to figure out. All he had to do was listen and respond, coax, and wait.

He let his hands move up her waist until they lightly skimmed the sides of her breasts. She pressed into him, burying her face into his neck, and taking his hand, she brought it around so that it cupped her. They were larger than he had thought, his palm not able to cover the entirety of her breast. Her nipples hardened, and when his thumb brushed one, she made that whimpering sound again and arched her back, pushing herself into him.

Blood throbbed into his nether regions, making him so hard, it was almost painful.

He pulled back reluctantly and she opened her eyes. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, she was so unbelievably lovely

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t want it to end before it’s begun,” he said, feeling his face heat up. “You make it difficult, and I—I’ve never done this before.”

His heart in his throat, he let her take his hands and slide them down her back so she was encircled in his arms. His fingers found the laces that held her dress up. Meeting her eyes, he asked a silent permission, and she nodded.

With clumsy fingers he untied them.

The dress slipped down off her shoulders, exposing her beautiful collarbone, then over the tips of her breasts to her waist.

She wore nothing beneath. Her skin was golden, scattered with freckles, but pale where the sun couldn’t reach.

He just stood there, hardly breathing as he looked at her.

“Can I—”

She nodded again, her face pink. He knew she was just as embarrassed as he was—not because of humiliation or the fear of rejection, but the embarrassment of what it meant to expose oneself, to be vulnerable. There was no armor here, just hope and tenderness.

He cupped her left breast, feeling the weight. They were heavy and so soft—softer than he’d ever imagined. Leaning down, he kissed the tip of her right breast. She gasped and clutched at his arms as he took it into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue. By the little panting noises she made, he knew he wasn’t making a disaster of it—not even close.

He ran his finger along her collarbone, and kissed her everywhere, finding that the most sensitive place of her breast, the underside of it, right where her ribcage ended. Running his hands down her belly, he pressed his lips to the soft spot below her navel.

He slipped his fingers up her thighs beneath her skirt, and when they found her underwear he looked up at her. She lifted herself up, and heart pounding, he pulled them down around her hips, her legs, then letting them drop to the floor.

He knelt down between the v of her parted thighs and pushed her dress up.

As her thighs parted, he was met with golden hair and pale skin. He buried his fingers in her curls and when she gasped, he looked up.

“I always thought it would be darker,” he murmured. "But it's the same color as the hair on your head."

She gazed down at him under her eyelashes, blushing. “You imagined what I looked like?”

There was something vulnerable about the way she asked that made him want to reassure her.

“How could I not? You're so beautiful.”

Emboldened, he stroked his finger down between the folds of sensitive skin. She made little noises as he leaned forward and placed his tongue on the soft pink flesh, the heady, musky scent of her overwhelming his senses.

Then he slipped his finger inside her. She was as soft as the petal of a flower and yet there were rigid parts of her that he’d never expected. He slowly moved his finger out and pushed it back in, and he felt her hands on his scalp, the gentle pull of his hair sending shivers down his spine. Recalling something he’d overheard Bellamy speak of, he pressed upwards to see if it was true, and was surprised when she cried out his name softly,

“Monty…”

His name on her lips nearly took his breath away. Circling the tiny bundle of nerves with his tongue, pressing his finger within her, over and over again, she came there on the table he’d so carefully constructed, her toes clenched beside his head, her knuckles white as she gripped at the wooden surface.

Her body’s reaction to the overwhelming sensitivity of what was happening to her, was to try and pull away, but Monty didn’t let her, and she came again, and again, until she was writhing.  When he finally lifted his head, she relaxed, her legs and fingers loosening their grip. His wet fingers left patterns across her skin and her taste was still in his mouth, a not-unpleasant sour-sweetness he found intriguing and erotic.

Standing up, he pulled her down off the table and let the dress fell to the floor. She reached up and unzipped his hoodie and pushed it off his shoulders. She grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head, tossing them both away.

He watched, captivated, as she ran her hands over his chest and down the tight muscles of his back. He groaned into her shoulder. They felt so good. 

"Take me to your bed," she murmured into his ear.

So taking her into his arms, he lifted her up, his hands gripping her hips as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He brought her over to the bed where she wriggled from him.

She suddenly had her hands on his chest, and she was pushing him up to his knees. Bemused, he was silent as she pushed him down and rolled him over onto his stomach. He felt her hands once again on his back, then to the base of his spine, right above the waist of his pants, where his scars were, white and stark against the coppery color of his skin.

When he felt her lips touch them, he breathed in sharply. Each kiss she gave felt more healing then any amount of painkillers had.

“You suffered so much.” Her breath was whisper-soft against his skin. “You were right. I shouldn’t have left you there.”

He immediately rolled over and took her hands, pulling her on top him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his. He tucked her hair behind her ears, and she reluctantly lifted her eyes. He wiped away the tear that had fallen down her nose, just before it dripped off.

“I don’t blame you. I was just afraid-afraid that you didn’t see me as—as someone you could trust. I didn’t want to be protected, I wanted to protect you.”

“It’s strange,” she said. “You thought I didn’t see you as my equal, and you're right. I’ve always been in awe of you.”

Monty raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Really?" 

She nodded, her hair brushing against his chest. "You have so much knowledge about the world, Monty, even though you grew up in the sky. I thought you were incredible, and I couldn’t believe how lucky we were that you had been thrown into prison for growing illegal substances.”

She put her hand on the bare skin of his chest, over his heart.

“I knew you would save us all, if it came down to it. That’s why I had to protect you, Monty. I just never thought-I didn't expect to fall in love with you.”

Overcome, he rolled her over beneath him and buried his face in her neck where he felt the tiny flick against her skin as her heart pumped blood through her veins. He moved down to the place between her breasts, pressing small kisses against the delicate bone there.

“I was so afraid that I would break you that night,” he said, stroking his forefinger down the middle of her sternum. “You looked so small and fragile, so unlike you, and I was terrified you were going to die. I think that was when I realized that I cared about you more than I ever thought I had before. I don't think I would have had the strength to live if you had died that night.”

"Oh Monty," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Monty." 

With the thought that this would never have existed, that they would not be here, he buried his face between her breasts, taking comfort in the scent of her skin.

She pulled him up and kissed him hard, then she gently pushed him to his knees, sitting up between them. Her hands drifted down his stomach to the waist of his pants.

He felt an ache pulse through him, throbbing and dark. His heart pounded and his stomach fluttered with nerves as he watched her unbutton them and push them down over his hips and his obvious hardness. He watched her eyes, but she betrayed nothing, and as soon as his pants were discarded completely, he felt exposed and a little anxious.

She met his eyes. "I can see how nervous you are. I am too." 

He swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak. 

Holding his gaze, she touched him, her fingers trembling slightly. He drew in a sharp breath at the pleasure that coursed through him. Her hand grasped him, stroking, touching, and when her mouth found him, it was all he could do from exploding right there, his hands buried in her hair.

It was too much. Caressing her neck and cupping her cheek, he drew her up, his gaze falling from her eyes to her mouth.

“Your mouth feels too good. And I-I want to be inside you.”

He pushed her down stretched out over her, his fingers resting in her hair as it spread out like starlight behind her.She opened her legs and he sank down between them.

Her hands were on his shoulders, but he took them one by one, and placed them on either side of her head. He threaded his fingers through hers and she arched against him, her legs wrapping around him, knees pushing into his hips. He felt her, damp and warm against him, and the ache within him grew.

Her eyes were dark in the shadows. “I want you, Monty."

The hardened callouses on his heart, the ones covering his fears that he would never be good enough, that no woman would desire him, or call his name, and that he would always be alone, fell away.

His eyes never leaving hers, he guided himself into her. Her eyes fluttered shut and she made a sound that was so primal, it made all the hair on his body stand on end.

She was warm, not hot, but she was the softest thing he’d ever felt. He gasped as she clenched her muscles around him, having never realized she could hold him so tightly.

He moved slowly within her, and it was awkward at first. A few times he slipped out, misjudging how deep he was within her, but she only grasped him and guided him back in.

Soon he felt as though he were a ball of raw nerve endings, all waiting to be set aflame, and he reached down and took her knee and lifted it up, hooking her foot around his hip. The other followed and he felt her—all of her—around him as he pushed deeper into her.

When their eyes met, his chest ached with a longing he couldn’t explain, because it was not about sex.

With each thrust, she started making little sounds in her throat, high pitched and erratic, and his lower belly turned to liquid heat. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer—not with those sounds, not with the way she moved against him.

“Clarke, I—”

“Don't explain,” she said breathlessly. "It's okay.”

He ran his hand up her back to her neck and then into her hair, watching as her eyes fluttered shut. 

As he pressed his lips against her damaged wrist, the one she had cut twice-once to find him, once to save him-he felt the pulse of blood under her skin. It had no beginning and no end, it was just life flowing through her, and he felt the power of it. In her he had found a reason to live, and with her he would find a way to survive.

He came with her hands in his hair and her mouth on his. He closed his eyes as he let the exquisiteness of the moment wash over him until it was a shimmering memory, never to be forgotten.

He touched her until her body jerked under his hands. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and he drew her to him, holding her in his arms the way he had done so many months before, wishing that one day, it would be like this.

It finally was.

“I thought you said you were a virgin,” she said after a time, her cheek pressed against his chest.

“I said I was a virgin, not an idiot,” he corrected her with a slight twitch of a smile.

“Oh, it's instinct, is it? You just know it all naturally?”

He looked down at her, growing serious. “No. When no one pays you much attention, you can learn a lot by watching and listening. People are not always careful about what they talk about.” He thought a moment. “Especially guys.”

There was a long, somewhat awkward pause and Monty felt her bury her face in his armpit.

“Please tell me Finn didn’t say anything...” Her voice was muffled, but she sounded so embarrassed, so pained by the idea, he took pity on her. It was quite adorable, really.

“He never did,” he said soothingly, stroking a finger up her back. She shivered and he regretted saying anything. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up Finn."

She played with his fingers, stroking each one that as he stared down at her.

“I cared about Finn, I did.” She brought his hand to her lips and pressed them against his fingers. “But not like you. I will never love anyone as I love you. You're mine.”

In her possessiveness, she pressed herself against him and he could feel his wetness on her thighs.

The idea that part of him was inside her made him hard again. He rolled over her and he wrapped her arms around his neck. In one swift movement, he lifted her up onto him and sat back so she was on his lap, pushing himself even deeper inside her. 

He clutched her and whispered her name. Her hair brushed his shoulders, his chest, and her face buried in his neck. He felt wet tears on his skin, and he knew it was for Finn, for herself, and because she felt deeply, the scars of love and loss.

There were often many different loves in a lifetime, and sometimes there was only one. He knew he fell into the latter category, but that was okay. Love was vast and unconditional, and most people had more to give than they thought. Clarke certainly did.

The lamp went out and they were left under the blanket of night, the familiar and comforting darkness surrounding them.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear. “Monty…”

 

Later, he got up and lit the lamp again. When he turned back, he found her looking up at him, questioningly, her golden skin glowing, eyes the deepest blue.

“I want to see you,” he admitted. “I’m still in a strange state of denial, and if you walk out of my tent and you never come back, I have to be able to remember every bit of you.”

She raised her eyebrows, and shifted, her hair falling over her shoulders. “What makes you think I’ll be leaving? I was thinking of moving in.”

Monty stared at her. “Really?”

She bit her lip. “Unless you don’t—”

“No!” He knelt beside her, taking her cheeks into his hands. “My tent is all yours. All of my crappy made furniture is yours, and if you want I will make you more crappy furniture.”

She smiled at him a beautiful smile that made his heart ache with joy.

He drew her to him. “I can’t count the times I imagined you here with me,” he whispered into her hair. “I only want to share it with you.”

“Good.” She pulled back and tucked his hair behind his cheek. “Because I’m never leaving.”

She kissed him and he knew he would be okay. Finally he would be okay, because she was his starlight, and in her he would always find his way home.


End file.
